Life and How to Live It
by SurelyForth
Summary: AKA The awkward and sometimes inappropriate misadventures of Wilhelmina Hawke. Dragon Age II fic, Act II. Sequel to Maps and Legends, rated M for sexual content, strong language and violence.
1. Life

Welcome to _Live & How to Live It_, aka_ Maps & Legends Pt. 2_, aka_ The Continued Adventures of Wilhelmina Hawke and Company_.

For those of you just joining us: We're at the beginning of Act II, about seven months after the Deep Roads expedition.

For those of you returning: This is going to be a step up from Maps in terms of adult content. Seriously. There will be a lot of adult content.

For everyone: BioWare owns Thedas, its characters and all that stuff and is the best for letting hacks like me touch it and shade it and trust that I'm not going to ruin everything good about it.

* * *

><p>"This is peculiar," a familiar voice rouses Wil from sleep. "The richest woman in Hightown sleeping on a cold hearth like a common street urchin."<p>

"_Mumph_," is the only response Wil can summon, choosing instead to push a happily slumbering Bello out of the way so she can roll over, as if rolling over could stop Aveline if Aveline wanted her up badly enough.

Which, of course, she does.

"You _do_ realize that it's almost nightfall don't you?" The voice is a few inches from Wil's ear. Wil draws herself tighter, wrapping her arms around her head to muffle what she knows will come next. _You promised Leandra..."_that you'd go to the Chantry for prayer this evening. Come on, Hawke. I know that you...," Aveline isn't quite certain how to proceed. Not that Wil's given any of her friends any guidance on _that_ front. "It can't be easy, knowing what day it is. But however hard today is on you, it has to be that much harder on Leandra."

This does the trick. Wil unfolds, shifting onto her back and staring into green eyes beneath thin, drawn brows. "Fuck you, _Captain_."

Lips twitch up in a hint of a satisfied smile. "You're covered with dust and soot, Hawke. Clean up first. Then we'll talk about it." She offers a strong hand and pulls Wil up from the floor with admirable ease. "And you better get a move on. The evening service starts in an hour."

Wil screws her face up in distaste, but allows herself to be shepherded upstairs to her washroom.

Which..._her washroom_ has yet to stop sounding wrong. _Her_ washroom, off of _her_ bedroom and _her_ manservant standing at the door in case she needs anything.

Not that she would ever ask _Sandal_ to attend to her while she's naked, or even wait. The young dwarf, his services offered as a reward for his rescue in the Deep Roads, still unsettles her. She'd prefer to never find out if he found her breasts more or less enchanting than he did everything else.

Aveline stays, though. Wil keeps the door between rooms open so they talk while she washes off the accumulated grime of a night's patrol in the sewers and a morning spent cleaning the estate library.

"From what I can tell, the slavers left most of the books untouched," Wil cringes as her feet hit the cold water. Sandal must have drawn the bath that morning. "I guess they weren't big readers."

Aveline snorts. "Barely literate, more like. We still have a few being held after the raid, and Bronwyn down in the prison tells me they're the dumbest bunch of slobs she's ever met. They're also terrified the Viscount's going to hand them over to the Arishok for some reason," Wil can practically hear the shrug of _it's not a _terrible_ idea_ in Aveline's voice. "I don't believe in torturing men for no reason, but letting it hang over their heads keeps them in line."

"And, you know, _slavers_," Wil scrubs at a stubborn patch on her knee for almost a full, fruitless minute before she realizes _bruise_. A quick assessment of both legs and her arms reveals close to twenty. "What's the weather doing? When I was out this morning, it was colder than the Wilds...only with more sun- not as many clouds."

"It's still cool. Not like it gets in Ferelden, though. But we've both lost some of our insulation," Aveline trails off, and Wil can picture her friend running her hand down her well muscled abdomen, a frown touching her brow. She'd not be thinking of missed meals, but of the stresses that cause them. "With the sun heading down, you should probably wear something more substantial than this dress Leandra has out for you."

The burgundy silk. _Uncomfortable and neither prudish enough to say _you'd be better off trying your luck elsewhere_ nor revealing enough to bring shame to Mother when my gesticulating gets out of hand. _She sinks back against the edge of the basin, allowing herself a few minutes of comfort now that she's accustomed to the water. "I bet she's hoping we'll see Prince Vael at the Chantry. She found out about him through one of her new old friends, and apparently the whole bride of the Maker thing isn't going to stand in the way of her thinking I should pursue him in an _I want your sexy, sexy political connections and superior blood_ sort of way."

"Hawke." Watch yourself. "You shouldn't go mocking the clergy, even if he is in your debt. Especially now that people are paying attention to you."

Hands finding the edge of the basin, Wil splashes out of the tub, her teeth chattering before she can pull on her thickest robe.

"I have a _thickest robe_," she's speaking mostly to herself and _it's been over seven months...the absurdity should be wearing off by now._ "And I wish people would stop paying attention. I'm tired of pretending like I know half the places they talk about, or the names they drop. Plus, it's cutting into my Hanged Man time."

Aveline leans in, one flushed cheek pressed against the stone doorframe. "According to Varric, you haven't been to the Hanged Man for over two weeks. I know from the mess downstairs you haven't spent _all_ that time on the house."

_Nosy Aveline._ Wil debates whether or not she should even attempt a cover story. Her fingers slip up her damp neck and curl into the wet hair curling there. It's longer than it's been since Ostagar, allowed to grow unchecked. "Maybe I've taken a lover," Wil retorts, arch and too late. "Did you ever consider that?"

Continuing her tour of deflection, Wil sails past Aveline and into the bedroom, pulling open the wardrobe and dragging out the first remotely practical garment she finds. It's a blue wool tunic over a lighter linen dress. Worn with a cape, it should be warm enough.

"Sure. I'll play along with the laughable notion of you _taking a lover_," the older woman takes an uneasy seat at the edge of Wil's bed, the mattress stripped and heavily stained. "Romantic nighttime walks in Darktown...quite the catch, Hawke."

The robe comes off, a hurried gesture, and Wil doesn't look to see if Aveline averts her gaze. Normally she'd drag this out, perhaps go up on her toes and cock her hips in a deliberate tease. Despite the fact she wants to not talk about this with _anyone_, she can't bring herself to do anything but tug on her undergarments with big, careless gestures that she hopes hides the tremor in her hands.

"You're not responsible for my well-being, _Mother_," Wil turns once the dress is on, her fingers and her attention on the laces that run up the side of her tunic. Even pulled tight, it hangs away from her breasts in unflattering folds and creases. _Maker's breath, I'm almost as flat as Merrill now._ "You don't need to have me followed."

"Don't I?" Aveline stands and immediately strides away. "I'm Captain of the City Guard, Hawke. It's my duty to keep Kirkwall and the people in it safe," she pauses near the door. "And for some idiotic reason, I hate the thought of you ending up on the wrong end of a bandit's blade. Although if someone wanted to do something about that tongue of yours...a reward _might_ be in order."

She leaves, the door closing behind her with not _quite_ a slam. Were this the apartment, the adjacent walls would still be shaking. But in this place there is only a brief noise and then strong stone. Silent.

Wil misses walls that shook, and drafty floors and the clatter and din of the square below. It's so comfortable here...there's never that breath of relief when a blanket wrapped tight warms shivering limbs, or when you wake up alone and worried that the rest of the world might have died without you knowing only to hear the reassuring shouts of children at play. Here it's too easy to think the world is dead and...just not care.

She has no idea _what_ anymore, but she knows it's not a good thing to _just not care_.

* * *

><p>Justice is strangely fascinated by the Blooming Rose.<p>

Anders, on the other hand, is uncomfortable. He sits at the bar while Madame Lusine scrounges up the gold necessary to keep her workers in good health. Normally not one to charge, Anders wastes so much time on check-ups and treatments here, and reassuring the whores' shallow concerns, that he feels _some_ restitution is fair. There's also the matter of how it feels to be a place such as this, all plush finery and low light, women clad in scraps of silk running discreet hands over their breasts so that their nipples remain pleasingly taut and men that glisten prowling in equally scant clothing. Their eyes make circuits around the room, their attention flitting easily over the regulars who would be around all night to those with more fleeting interest and heavier pockets.

They ignore Anders.

They associate him with discomfort, with pain, with _fear_. They associate him with disinterest when he has their pride spread before him, their legs parted and self-worth hinging on the flickers of desire they see so many times in the subtle lip-biting, sweating, and shifting of others but not from him. They associate him with y_ou need to be careful_ and _I'll tell Lusine you'll not be able to work for a week_ and _I told you what to watch out for last time I was here…it's really not _that_ difficult_.

They don't know who he used to be.

There's a couple in the corner, a voluptuous red-haired woman and her slender, Antivan husband. They're here often, a legitimately charming pair who grope each other openly even as they assess the other patrons. They're not here for the whores any more than Anders is, but they are looking for someone eager to join them in their posh rented rooms. A true third party, of course, as none could deny the passion they have for each other, barely concealed beneath their skin.

Two years ago, he'd been in their position. He'd been with a woman who could incite him with a turning touch, her duty shed as easily as her clothes could be littered across the floor of whatever room they'd locked themselves into. They'd spent nights at a similar place in Amaranthine, their upper bodies held at a respectable distance but below the table their hands seeking the other through robes and leathers and damp satin smalls. Men and women would pass, desire-crooked lips pressed together and even when they were beautiful, which wasn't too often, he saw only where the evening would end:

With the man or woman handpicked from the passing men and women gone and unimportant as he settled into contented slumber, his face buried in the hair of a woman who shed duty as easily as her clothes, but only for him.

Justice turns, as Anders knew he would.

_How do you think I feel,_ Anders wonders, _knowing how quick you are to pull me from the brink of the very desire that so intrigues you here?_

_It is something else…like the need of those below, like the need of the mages. But different. Stronger, in its way, but not as desperate._

_A thirst that can be endured._ Anders pushes aside his half-empty mug of ale and struggles with the flush of warmth spreading along his stomach that has little to do with alcohol. _You underestimate how _easy_ it is to endure this._

_Then we should leave._

A smart, yet useless, idea. The clinic is no better. If anything, it's almost worse now…only the edge he walks _there_ is anticipation.

It draws him out of healing, out of writing, out of sleep. It yanks his heart with almost painful insistence and settles bone-deep to make every person who comes into his clinic, every bit of human contact, every night spent alone a profound disappointment.

Food arrives each morning, hand-delivered by a grocer who must either pay well or command uncommon loyalty from the boys who run his wares to have any willing to venture into the undercity alone and carrying its most sought after commodity.

Supplies arrive two times a week, Lirene and a few of her new hires bringing them down in non-descript cartons that bear the Kirkwall city insignia on them in faded red paint.

One morning he'd sifted through the crates himself, his fingers catching on a narrow strip of paper. On it was drawn a tabby cat, readied to pounce. For a moment he'd considered this a sign before Lirene had plucked it from his grasp with a sheepish "I use that to keep place in my books", leaving him crestfallen and even more susceptible to the flood of excitement that accompanied every new patient or visitor.

_This is why we need to leave Kirkwall._

As idle as a finger stirring a drink, Justice proposes it again. It had been their plan, after all. Even before Karl, they'd thought about traveling to other Circles, or even to the College of Magi in Cumberland to see if he couldn't gain an audience with one of the Senior Enchanters there to discuss the situation in Kirkwall. While he did not think Knight-Captain Meredith a reasonable sort, a grave understatement, the Chantry is sometimes willing to hear out the more reasoned mage leaders. That such an approach would be a slow one, and probably yield little appreciable results save for a newfound awareness among the mages outside of the Gallows as to what is going on to their brethren _within_ the Gallows, is why Anders has not been able to fully commit.

Or so he tells himself.

Instead he's been seeking a lead given to him by Karl. The older man had not the audacity to spell it out in the letters he'd sent, but the hints had been there. Sympathetic templars, non-mages and apostates within the city and just outside the borders willing to risk capture or execution to smuggle apprentices and mages out of the Gallows. Anders has attempted to track down a few of the names given, but all of his research and detective work had ended in dead ends and slammed doors.

_I accomplished more in the three months before the expedition than we've gotten done in the seven months since_, he chokes back the bile that always wants to come up when he passes too close to the expedition in his thoughts.

A disconcertingly familiar tap on his elbow surprises him and brings with it that damnable pulse of _maybe_ that causes his head to whip around too quickly and his mouth to hang open in silent frustration when it's Isabela who climbs onto the stool beside him, tossing her abnormally mussed mane of hair and pushing her breasts across the bar like currency.

"Unless you're not going to finish that?" She offers no other greeting and deftly nicks his abandoned mug, running her tongue along the edge in ownership. It's an oddly demure gesture for someone who thrives on provoking and it does something to settle him.

Something. Not _much_. He's not seen her since a chance encounter at the Hanged Man a few months ago. She'd been in the lap of a leather-cheeked sea-faring type, occupied with whatever potential she sensed there, and Anders had been visiting Varric for some made-up reason, but really just to get out and see someone who wasn't covered in blisters, blood or rashy patches. They'd made eye-contact, but that was all. He'd been in and out in less than an hour, caught up on what business Varric cared to share with him and a few other bits of news that he never _actively_ sought but thoroughly appreciated.

"This answers a question I had a few months ago," she takes a long swig of ale and keeps her eyes on her drink. "You could manage to be a black hole of fun even at a place as wondrous as the Rose." Her knee bumps against his, hard. "I miss the _old _Anders…_he_ seemed like a fun guy."

His teeth dig into his tongue for a moment, he brows drawing together in something close to hurt. Of all the things he needs to be reminded of…"You didn't know that Anders." She's surprised. "Spending a few hours in a bedroom with someone hardly counts as knowing them."

"Well, to be fair to me, I've been operating under the assumption that you treated the entire world like your bedroom, and everyone in it like potential conquests."

Lips turn down at the corners. He's forgotten how astute the woman can be when she's not trying so hard to disarm. Of course, she could also be describing herself. Or what she lets people to think of her.

"It wasn't quite that. But people _do_ change, even without…" he gestures to himself. "You can probably guess that Justice doesn't necessarily approve of seeing everyone as potential conquests to be taken advantage of and left behind."

Isabela shrugs, her eyes gleaming with the sudden idea of mischief. "You _do _realize there's a middle ground between whore and priest, don't you? I think there's a word for it…_monotony_, maybe?"

"For some people. Not me," he wishes he'd kept his drink. Or rather that he'd not ordered it in the first place, because he is so very aware of that middle ground and how thoroughly he'd rejected it. Still, as he does with Varric, he leads Isabela on, longing for even a passing mention…"And who do you suppose would put up with me for longer than a day, knowing what I am?"

She doesn't bite. "Fuck if _I_ know. Maybe that _incredibly_ handsome man down there?" She tilts her head towards the end of the bar and a man that Anders had noticed earlier in the night.

He's the sort of man that _everyone_ notices. Rangy but elegant, a head of ebony hair shot through with veins of silver that also run through his neatly cropped beard. His eyes are clear grey, striking even in this low light, and his features angular. From his finery, he belongs in Hightown. From his careless posture, intense gaze and purposeful smirk, he belongs anywhere he wants to be.

His attention in on Anders.

"It's not the first time someone's thought to hire me," he returns to Isabela, discomfort and a slight thrill of panic tightening the muscles in his shoulders. "He must know what I am."

"Ah," she swivels around, knocking against him in the process. "Electricity thing. Well, fun seeing you as always. _I'm_ heading back upstairs so I don't have to smack you later when you deny yourself a _prize_ proposition."

It's easier to let her leave, so he does. Enough has been said as it is and, although he knows she wasn't being deliberately cruel, he's doing quite well needling himself this evening.

The extra help is quite unnecessary.

Sighing as if it's been an effort to sit at the bar waiting for Lusine, he too abandons his seat and nearly plows over the haggard madame who's appeared behind him with a coinpurse clutched in one aged hand.

"Here you go, Fereldan," she relinquishes the gold with clear reluctance. "A discount would be cheaper."

"In more way than one," the bag gets shoved into his jacket. He almost states, with unwelcome specificity, exactly _why_ he's unwilling to take her up on a repeated offer of reduced rates, but the man at the end of the bar is watching and his interest in Anders is undisguised and nothing like the lascivious gazes he's _used_ to receiving here.

He wishes it were.

_If he follows us…_

Anders does not allow himself to panic, but instead moves towards the door, counting steps as he dodges a pair of workers who grope each other in a teaseshow for a table full of barely attentive merchants and a man he suspects might be Gamlen Amell.

He doesn't stop to see.

He doesn't stop once he's outside, either, and gulping air that goes down like glass. Instead he rushes to the stairs that are directly across the plaza from the Rose's main entrance. Despite the frigid night, there's a substantial crowd of sailors, nobles and uneasy women shivering in low-cut gowns, soldiering through the cold snap for extra coin to keep them in firewood and oil for the remainder of the season.

Justice is no longer fascinated. This strange man had been too intent, too focused on Anders. Most worrying had been a flicker of familiarity in those grey eyes, as if he knew the apostate when Anders is certain he'd never seen the man before this evening.

The stairway is littered with couples of convenience and exchange. Anders is glad for their presence, despite worrying for a boy who appears far too young to be out and with his cheek shoved against the rough stone of the city wall while a dead-eyed soldier type bucks against him. His mouth opens to intervene, varying degrees of stupidity, but he catches a shadow descending behind him, growing larger with every second that Anders hesitates and he knows it's a risk he can't take.

He does not remember running the rest of the way down the stairs, fighting the urge to cast a discreet haste spell, nor does he pause when he hears a voice he does not know shout his name, allowing it to echo around him but not catch because he cannot be caught. Not by someone he doesn't know who knows _him_.

What he does do is this: make a wrong turn. It's near his usual entrance into the sewer, but not quite and turns out to be a dead end.

But it's also an _empty_ dead end, and only blank city walls that stretch up towards Hightown. If something should happen here, whether by magic or by hand, it could very well go unnoticed.

_Except he's not a man who won't be missed._

"Anders?" The voice rumbles down the alley.

Justice flares, blue shading Anders' vision to give the approaching stranger an unearthly glow.

He stops.

Justice retreats, but still lingers on Anders' skin, the cool air around him electric with the spirit.

"You were a friend if Karl Thekla," the man states this as if it is common knowledge.

Anders feels the prickling of sweat along his hairline, a very _human_ reaction to any mention of Karl.

"How do you know of him?" Anders does not relax his guarded stance. Karl had been well-regarded within the Circles for his research into the spirit school of magic, but his is not a name any non-mage should have committed to memory.

The man shrugs and begins walking forward again, clearly unconcerned with whatever threat Anders might pose.

"I never met the man, but he and my partner were in close contact during his stay in the Gallows." C_lose_ is lavished with an uncomfortable amount of attention. "I arranged the details of his escape…and it's probably my fault he ended up in his unenviable predicament." He offers Anders a tight smile. _"Sorry_ about that."

* * *

><p>The last rays of sunlight illuminate the white spires of the Kirkwall Chantry, although the golden door is already shadowed and the outside torches lit. The Hawkes and Aveline are part of a small clutch of people arriving for the evening Chant, all of them in Hightown finery.<p>

The evening Chant is not for the poor, who probably wouldn't survive the dark walk back to Lowtown.

Wil finds the sparse, unfamiliar crowd suits her. If she has to be here, then she'd rather it be a personal affair and not one she'd have to explain to curious noblewomen the next time she visits the market.

Leandra clings to her arm as they enter, worried creases deepening between her eyes as she squeezes a few times and Wil comes up disappointing. Not a surprise, that.

"Ivetta was telling me over tea this afternoon that the latest trend in Orlais is plump arms," it's said almost absentmindedly and punctuated with another judgmental squeeze. "Bared shoulders and curves and shimmering fabrics. You'd look so lovely in pale pink, Wilhelmina."

Wil can't hide the cringe that follows _that_ assessment, Aveline offering a sympathetic glance over Leandra's bowed head before she ushers them to a prayer bench on the side of the mezzanine that _isn't_ fraught with traumatic memories.

There's nothing here Wil wants. The bench is unforgiving, the air is cloying with incense and the distinctive odor of furs and smoking wax. Despite their being ample seating all around the mezzanine, a family of dour-faced Orlesians take the bench directly in front of them and a pair of elderly gentleman wedge themselves behind Wil and almost immediately begin communicating back and forth via throat-clearing and harrumphing.

_I hope Mother remembers this night the next time I've done something wrong._ Wil shakes herself. _Dammit, Wil. How could she _forget_ this night? _

Guility, she pulls her gloves off so that she can slip one warm hand into Leandra's, who clings to the offering as if it's a lifeline and, despite the Chanty being...chanted, and prayers offered to all those suffering or in need of the Maker's guidance, it's Wil's hand that Leandra seems to treasure the most.

It's nice, in its way. It at least makes Wil feel like she's doing something worthwhile, even if she can only endure the words being intoned by a pair of priests who weigh each syllable the same as the one that comes after it, lending the verses a smooth surface that allows Wil's thoughts to slide easily over.

Not that they're _important_ thoughts. She's starting to doubt she's ever had a single one of those. No, these days her mind is occupied with frivolous concerns- curtains and carpets and what color to paint the mantles so that they pop against the masonry? Where she used to be concerned that her mother might go to bed with an empty stomach, or be imprisoned , now she stands in front of a wardrobe literally overflowing with dresses she doesn't remember purchasing or asking to have made and wonders if anyone would miss her if she threw them onto the hardwood _or maybe I should have carpet put in up here, too_ and climbed inside the wardrobe forever.

In the Chantry, she allows her mind to wonder over renovations to the library, which is the last room that needs them before Wil's own quarters receive attention. The past four months since they moved have been spent squatting in her own home, usually passing out from exhaustion well after dawn and wherever she happened to be at the time sleep decided to claim her.

The hearth, the dining room table, the bench in the foyer...one morning it was on the floor in front of Leandra's armoire. Wil had awoken to her mother's gentle hands and together they'd gotten her to the bed, where Leandra had held her daughter as her _daughter_ for the first time since the twins had been born, when little Wilhelmina had curled herself around her mother's swollen abdomen and gently explored the smooth, firm surface, thrilling at every thump and nudge that greeted her small, probing hands.

Wil jerks on the pew, realizing that the Chant is over and all heads, save her own, are bowed in prayer. Instead of joining them, she pulls her hand away from Leandra and takes the time to wipe her eyes before the others can see her.

The benediction ends just as Wil feels suitably composed and the congregation rises as a unit, filing out of the pews and towards the stairs visibly no different than they'd been when they'd come in.

Unless Leandra walking by herself, mindlessly diving through the Orlesians and the old men, counts as different. Her small frame disappears down the stairs before Wil can even make it to the edge of the mezzanine, and she's urging Aveline, who is a few steps closer, to give chase when she hears a familiar voice behind her.

"Serah Hawke?" She stops and turns only her head in expectation, startled by the lack of dread in her stomach. _This is what happens when you don't go out of your way to piss people off...you're not scared to talk to them again._ "It's a pleasure, and a surprise, to see you."

Sebastian states it so pleasantly, she has no doubt that it's true. Shoving aside her usual reservations, she offers something close to a smile as he materializes into view and then politely pulls her away from where the remaining parishioners are filing out, his fingertips pressing resolutely into her elbow.

"Sebastian." Then, because it's her. "Prince? Brother..._you_. Seb?"

He smiles, a flash of white, and faint lines crease next to his eyes. "Sebastian will suffice. I'm between positions, so to speak."

"Yet still here?" She looks him over, surprised by the relatively plain tunic he wears. Without the gleaming white armor, he's not quite so much a pinnacle of visual virtue. "It's been almost a year."

"It takes time to rally support on the scale required," his lips hold a ghost of a grin. "And I don't want to press until I know for certain that...," a shadow passes, momentarily darkening sky-colored eyes. Then he's back to brightness. "Besides...this is my home. I still serve the Maker."

"Yes, but rushing in to dethrone a usurper sounds like so much fun," Wil recognizes the tone she's using. This is how she speaks to the nobles who circle her, eying her with her newfound wealth and social status and usually find her lacking. Irreverent charm is how she stays afloat, treading each encounter while searching as discreetly as she can for any sign of a reprieve.

She has no real reason to do that to Sebastian. Not yet, anyway.

"_You_ might think so," he chuckles and leans back against the wall. "Some of us aren't _quite_ so skilled or fearless."

Ha. _Fearless_. _Foolish_, more like. _Desperate_ for coin at the time, definitely. "Do I look skilled or fearless to you?"

This invites attention she wishes she'd not asked for. Wil is aware, painfully so, of how the past several months have worn on her appearance.

Still, it hurts a little when Sebastian's nose wrinkles in concern.

"I had noticed...but thought it rude to ask," his voice lowers. "Your sister is not with you."

And...no. Her sister is not with her.

"My sister is why we're here," she admits, quietly...surprised she can hear herself at all. She's managed to keep even her thoughts silent on this topic today. "Praying for her safety on her nameday."

"Did she run away?" He's surprised. "Or was she taken?"

Wil turns aside, unable to endure his sympathetic gaze. "Neither. She was corrupted in the Deep Roads. She's with the Grey Wardens now...or not."

_Or not_ is its own admission and Sebastian draws a quick breath.

"And...you did not pray with the others." Just an observation of something that no doubt makes her seem like the worst sort of uncaring asshole. "You think she didn't make it?"

His question is greeted with silence. Not because it's too personal, which..._totally_ too personal. But even too personal would earn something smartass. This silence is because she can't admit to anyone that she doesn't know what she _would_ pray for.

How can she? Months to think it over and, even removing selfishness from the scenario, she's still no closer to deciding whether living as a Warden or _death_ would be the preferable outcome for her sister.

"I apologize," he murmurs and catches himself before saying anything that might fall unwelcome on her ears. She can only imagine what he wants to say. _I'll pray for your sister, I'll pray for your mother..._

_I'll pray for you._

He has an air of naiveté about him, but he's not stupid. There are just some things you don't say to certain people.

"It's freezing outside, and Mother probably doesn't trust me to walk the five feet between here and home on my own. I should be leaving," her voice falters and she offers a nod to fill the void. "Sebastian."

He lets her go without another word, although the way his lips turn down says plenty.

_And now I can fret the next time we talk_. It's reassuring.

Outside Avelina and Leandra are shivering at the base of the steps, cloaks tugged closed and their hoods pulled low over their foreheads. A gust of wind catches Leandra's and it falls away, allowing loose strands of silver hair to whip across a face worn with uncommon gravity.

_"But however hard today is on you, it has to be that much harder on Leandra."_

Wil hurries down to join them, her hands automatically going to refortify her mother against the cold. It's a gesture of concern, but also of confirmation.

Conformation that she still has it in her.

She has no idea _what_ anymore, but she _knows_ it's not a good thing to _just not care_.


	2. Notices

In the Hawke estate, on the desk downstairs, is a letter from Warden-Commander Stroud with a brief post-script written in Bethany Hawke's hand.

It's a brief post-script addressing Leandra and Gamlen, with no mention of _Mina_ at all.

Varric isn't told of this omission, so he's simply happy that Sunshine survived the Joining _and_ he thinks that _they_ haven't had a decent night of drinking together, _all_ of them, in who knows _how_ long.

_Since before the expedition. If you'd like to get technical._ But Wil doesn't want to get technical, because technical is a memory of more than just fun at the Hanged Man and her drunk sister enjoying the best nights of her life.

It's bottomless amber eyes and two people dancing around a truth that would be so easy where they anyone else.

Were _he_ anyone else.

As always in the flash of the heat caused by these moments past, she's torn between wishing she'd done more and wishing she'd never let herself care. Then it's a flame extinguished, forcibly if needed. Wil caps it and looks for a new distraction.

Life has become an endless distraction, from many sorrows. She's not living...just distracting herself.

Tonight, as she treads the familiar alleys between the bazaar and the Hanged Man, there are precious few distractions that aren't also strangers who might not appreciate her gaping openly at them. The cold that's held Kirkwall at its mercy for the past few months has finally abated, leaving behind a star strewn sky and the sort of balmy air that envelopes and caresses and beckons you into the night. Unfortunately, _most_ people have no purpose beyond being out, so they gravitate en masse to their usual haunts, many of which lie on the path she travels.

In the face of nothing to otherwise occupy her thoughts, she allows a measured assessment of what might occur this evening. She'd not asked Varric to invite Blondie, but she _knows_ as surely as she'd been told it. _Varric _sees him from time to time, when he can drag himself up from his clinic. So there _is_ a chance he _might_ be around. _Maybe_. Her hands push through her hair. It's short again, and even more haphazard due to Merrill's nerves and Wil's inability to give any instructions less vague than "Maker's breath, Merrill. Just _cut_." _Bethany_ had never stressed potential mistakes or needed guidance and _fuck_, she misses her sister. So much.

_So much? Wow_. _You are the _deepest_. Anders will certainly be held in thrall of your wit and charm._

_Dammit_. She's not up for this and if she wasn't _literally_ five feet away from the Hanged Man's door when she realizes it, she'd turn around and run back up to Hightown. But she's made it this far and there's something like home on the other side of the scarred wooden planks in front of her.

_Besides...any excuse for drinking oneself blind. Right?_

Unsurprisingly, given the weather and foot traffic, the Hanged Man is full. She doubts she could even claim an inch of the bar, as dense is the crowd of regulars around it, and every table has been claimed by packs of men, some foreign, some rough, and some clearly here because their usual tavern's full up tonight and they thought they'd be adventurous.

Wil's confident she'll never see them again, but it makes her no less annoyed that they're here _tonight_, taking up space and staring her up and down.

_Thank the Maker for Varric,_ Wil shoves her way through the crush of bodies on the main floor, mostly ignoring the hands that grope, including one that goes further than she's been used to these past several months. _At least in _his_ rooms I know who's palming my ass._

As if anticipating her, the door is open and only the lamps on his table are lit. It lends the room a warm ambiance at odds with how the dwarf is in tense conversation with a heavily scarred elf who might have a few decades on Gamlen.

From the urgent tone of their conversation and the few words she catches- _shipments_, _imports_, _tariffs_, Wil assumes it's _business_ business and not _brother hunting_ business.

And further proof is how edgy Varric remains after the elf excuses himself with a crooked, slippery grin. It's almost a full minute he spends brooding, eyes dark and lips pressed in a tight line. Before the expedition, Wil would have never guessed that her friend could be so terse. Of course, she'd also never imagined that his brother could be capable of such _extreme_ betrayal.

"It's not enough that he left me for dead," it's almost as if he can read Wil's mind. "But to saddle anyone with all this shit is just..._wrong_." He sighs and she can see him making the effort to slip the mask back on, to be a good host because this evening was _his_ idea, after all. "But enough about business...unless you have a cunning plan to rid me of the Merchant's Guild for good?"

"I told you, poison the cheese tray at the next meeting. You dismissed it as too crass," Wil snatches a bottle of strawberry wine from his bookshelf and settles into her usual seat, across from Bethany's. "I still say it's a beautiful solution...especially considering how many people in Kirkwall would benefit."

"Hmmm," he smiles and it's honest. "You know, Hawke, sometimes I think you missed your calling as a political advisor. I hear that's what the Hero of Ferelden is doing...an interesting move for someone who's probably a lot like you."

Wil tries to imagine herself as the hero of _anything_ and fumbles with the corkscrew, nearly stabbing herself in the process. "Well one thing's for certain...I'd make a terrible barkeep," she tries again, actually paying attention to where she sticks the pointy end this time. "But I really can't see Viscount Dumar going for me, considering he called me _that_ _impertinent one_ when Mother and I went to petition him for the estate."

It elicits a warm chuckle from Varric's throat and the last of his tension seems to shed itself. _Seems_ because Wil understands how overwhelmed he is sifting through the wreckage of Bartrand's life. It's difficult to pick up the threads of another's existence, and even more so when that other was prone to making enemies and bad decisions at every turn.

"Sometimes an impertinent advisor is the only one you can trust," he snorts. "_They're_ the ones who will tell you what you need to hear when everyone else just nods and gives you more of what you want."

Her mouth pulls at the corner, the beginnings of her own smile. "And what do you _want_ to hear, Tethras?"

His chair emits a soft moan as he leans back, stretching his arms behind him before they fold to cradle his reclining head. "Write the next great novel, Varric. Buy the Hanged Man and make it a private club for everyone in Kirkwall who isn't in the guild, Varric."

"Grab Bianca and run away to Antiva with me, Varric." The cork finally gives a satisfying pop and Wil drinks straight from the bottle, claiming it. She sees his brows rise in curiosity. "It would be fun! We could be grifters, fall in with the Crows on accident."

"That seems like a road leading straight to _trapped_, Hawke."

"And? Escaping would be half the fun," she can almost picture the two of them in an Antivan villa, wearing ridiculous Satinalia costumes that expose chests and legs and plotting their way out of their latest mess. From Isabela's descriptions of Antiva, there'd be more than mere assassins standing in their way...

"You are...picturing yourself seducing a merchant prince, aren't you?" Fenris slips easily into the chair nearest Wil, his hand going for the bottle she'd just claimed.

"Actually," she acknowledges his sudden presence by holding it just out of his reach and indicates the shelf behind them which she knows holds at least two more bottles of his favorite. "I wouldn't mind seeing _Varric_ try."

This gets Varric upright in his seat, one hand running over his stubbled jaw. "You should write Sunshine and ask her how I feel about Antivan merchant princes." He winks. "You can do that now, right?"

Two sets of eyes turn expectant and Wil realizes she should react a certain way. She should be overjoyed at the idea of her sister alive and available to read frivolous missives and to send such in return. But the smile she manages to put up, barely, is forced.

"I can, but who knows if she'll have time," this gulp of wine is too enthusiastic and she nearly chokes herself. "From what I've heard, Wardens aren't the pen-pal types. Interferes with the whole mysterious mysterious vibe."

Fenris rises to fetch his own beverage, and returns with a graceful plop beside her, his silvery-white hair flaring around his face to reveal a thoughtful expression. "The mage is the only Grey Warden I've met. What purpose do they serve between Blights?"

Wil picks at the remnants of the wax seal on her wine bottle, her fingernails chipping away at the maroon blob that leaves bits like blood beneath them. Her head is beginning to ache, swallowing as it must certain words and allusions to keep them from becoming all she can dwell upon.

_Where _is_ he?_

"Who knows?" She shrugs it off. "Mysterious mysterious, remember? My guess is...they patrol the Deep Roads, respond to reports of darkspawn attacks that turn out to be bandits or the Dalish or an aggressive pile of rocks...all of which, by the way," her head tilts towards Varric, "found themselves being blamed for the first darkspawn encountered before the Blight."

"Piles of rocks?"

"Aggressive rocks." _Sigh_. "Only in Ferelden."

"So you have...no idea what your sister will be doing or where she'll be?" This isn't a case of Fenris wanting to make her angry, just curiosity mingled with alarm. "That must be...difficult."

_Difficult_. She takes another deep drink, running it through clenched teeth before responding as glibly as she can:

"Wherever she is, she'd probably rather be _there_ than attending those Maker forsaken Hightown community meetings." It's the biggest lie. "I notice _you_ somehow manage to avoid them, Messere Fenris."

For a moment, she's afraid that he won't take it. Sometimes he doesn't, pressing on despite the fact that he _has_ to know he shouldn't. Tonight, however, he's close to being in a good mood.

"And what do you think our neighbors would do were I to show up at one of these gatherings?" He gestures towards himself. Even without his gauntlets and chest plate, and despite his lithe build, there's an alluring danger coiled beneath his skin, something wholly separate from the tattoos.

"Before or after you get propositioned?" She leans against her elbows and does some quick figuring. "Fifty percent would ignore your existence, thirty percent would ask you to join them for their next private party at the Rose, fifteen percent would try to nab you as their bridge partner aaaaaaaand the remaining five would ask you to refill their goblets. _Please_."

Beside her, Varric's chin pulls into his neck and his voice raises in a surprisingly passable imitation of just about any of the older women Wil's met through her mother's frequent social outings. "And please _do_ bring me a few more of those dreadful pastries that stick to my hips if I so much as _look_ at them," he laughs his way back to Varric. "And then they stare at you for a few seconds too long before turning to Lady Silkstockings on their right to ask if she's ever noticed _how elves have the _prettiest_ eyes_."

"So you've been to one of these meetings?" Fenris asks, amused.

"Oh no, Broody. But the Merchant's guild ain't much better...just slightly less _polite_."

Wil shivers.

"I think I'll stick to my place...and Hawke's," he sounds almost pleased to be saying it. A _pleased_ Fenris is unsettling, but Wil supposes it's residual gratitude that he'd been invited along when she and Aveline went in to flush the slavers out of the Amell estate. While most had turned themselves over to the guard peacefully, a few had attempted to escape through the cellar only to find themselves trapped between a barred door and an extremely pissed and glowing former slave.

To say that he'd enjoyed the endeavor would be the _biggest_ understatement.

"_You_ just want access to her _wine cellar_," Isabela's the next to come in, hips rolling and eyes roving over Fenris and Wil. "And, yes. _Very_ much intended." She offers Wil a lascivious wink as she takes a seat _Bethany's seat_ and spends a few minutes wriggling, writhing and crossing and uncrossing her legs until she's comfortable and commanding everyone's attention.

"It's good to see you, too, Bela," all the furious drinking is starting to take its effect; Wil's sounding a bit on the _take me now_ side of cordial. "It's been a few weeks." The pirate nods, a closed-lipped smile brightening her face. "Don't tell me you've been adventuring without me. I'll be _very_ upset."

"Something tells me you'll be fine, Hawke," she waves it off with laugh. "Besides, the last time we talked about it, you'd sworn off adventuring."

Wil searches her memory. While she's not been up for the normal grind of mercenary work and whatever it was she'd been doing before, she can't recall actively _decrying_ the lifestyle.

"That doesn't sound like me at _all_," she crosses her arms over her chest.

"And I quote," Fenris intones. "_The one good thing about having this fucking gold is the fact that I'm not _always_ covered in bruises, blood and spider guts_."

Hmmm. That _did_ sound like her. "I must have been drunk."

"Heh. I like that you can figure that out on your own, Hawke," Varric's fingers run along the edge of the table, his eyes widening in sudden pleasure. Wil whips her head towards the door embarrassingly fast, which means having to plaster a demented smile on her face as to not reveal any disappointment when it's just Merrill in the doorway, clutching a breadbasket against her stomach.

"Um. Hello," her gaze finds Wil's and whatever she sees there unsettles her. "Hawke. You look...I expected you to be happy. _Really_. Happy."

_Thank you, Merrill._ The air around Wil grows heavy as attention that's only skimmed the surface intensifies and she is well aware that she does _not_ hold up to heavy scrutiny, especially not with her wine-reddened lips stretched into a terrifying rictus grin. She forces her face to relax, and her response to be something like nonchalant. "I'm fine tired. I mean...fine _but_ tired. _Buts_...surprisingly important for the coherency of speech."

"They're important for _lots_ of things...although my appreciation for them stops at the aesthetic," Isabela stands to help Merrill arrange the bread on the table.

"I challenge that claim," movement catches in the corner of Wil's eye but she instinctively knows _this_ shape- Aveline, who is playing at wench and carrying a stew-ladened tray. "I had you _pegged_ as someone with a healthy interest in both form _and_ function."

"Maker's _breath_," Varric's shoulders sag forward, _determinedly_ so as Isabela cackles her appreciation and flings a warm roll at Wil's head.

"You're like a psychic of depravity, Wilhelmina Hawke," her eyes gleam in unguarded appreciation. Then, catching a small wrinkle of confusion between Merrill's brows. "I wouldn't think about it too hard, kitten."

"Good advice for _all_ of us," Aveline is far from amused by such topics. Her gaze moves around the room, taking a silent census and Wil realizes how unusually _formal_ this entire evening has been. With a wrench of her stomach, she realizes that they'd probably all worked together to make it go so smoothly. "We're only missing one."

_Two, really._ Wil's midsection is setting itself to heave. _Technically. _

"I invited him," Varric's fingers drum thoughtfully against the table. "Sent a message down to his clinic. He might not have gotten it, or he lost track of time. Or days."

"Perhaps he did not wish to come," Fenris tilts his head towards Wil. "Or perhaps _I_ am projecting."

"Perhaps," the echo is dry. "Is that why you got here so early? To get drunk before he arrived, or so you could excuse yourself when he showed up?"

"Hmmm," he eyes the bottle in his hand with genuine consideration. "Both."

Honest. But honesty does nothing to settle her stomach. If anything, her frustration at the elf's hatred of _the mage_ just intensifies her own need to see him, to reassure herself that he's eating and sleeping and that he doesn't hate her for opening things between them when she knew he preferred them closed.

She loves Varric, but she doesn't trust him to notice what's _important_.

"It's fine," she lies, her hand reaching for a stack of cards at the center of the table as she chokes back disappointment that should be relief. "One less person for me to lose to once we start playing Diamondback."

Wil shuffles the deck awkwardly, giving her hands and her eyes and her brain something to do that isn't tremble or turn to the door every few seconds or think about how nice it would have been to see him, at least.

She misses him. It's a generic _so much_...not Bethany levels, of course, but it's somehow more frustrating because he's on the periphery of her existence, just a quick run through the cellar, or a random visit to the Hanged Man away, yet...

_No. This is a night for relief, not for reflection or regret. _

So Wil caps it and looks for a new distraction and there are so many...a bottle, a buxom pirate with a sharp wit, a handsome elf who is amusing her this evening with an unusually easy manner...but even though she's not _thinking_, her attention is pulled elsewhere at every footfall and murmur outside of Varric's rooms until she's lost so much gold and drank so much wine that she gives up on the evening completely and climbs into Varric's bed, her boots coming off in permanency and the dwarf tucking her in between hands.

It's guilt that chases her to sleep, that her friends tried something nice and she can't even keep herself upright to appreciate it. After all, it's not _their_ fault that what she needs most

_absolution_

is not a _thing_ that any one of them can provide.

* * *

><p>He's nervous.<p>

And nervousness in a situation like _this_? Not the best.

He remembers a night forever ago, standing in front of a brazier in the middle of a darkly paneled hall. On one side of him was a dwarf, covered in bits of flayed darkspawn like it was the latest fashion and swearing up a storm about how badly his arsehole hurt and maybe the Warden could get a move on so he could see to his _arsehole_.

On the other was a pretty young soldier, pale with clear grey eyes. Had the Commander not existed, he'd have already tried to get _that_ one behind one of the wide pillars that lined the room. As it was, his eyes had difficulty looking anywhere but ahead of him, where _she_ stood, compelling his attention despite her blood blackened armor and _him_ singed hair.

_The Joining._He'd been nervous, standing there. _Beyond_ nervous and into robewetting dread territory. He had no idea what it meant to be _conscripted into the Wardens_. Despite it buying him away from the templars, there was no indication of permanence. Could someone fail at Joining? Could someone be so bad at this that the Wardens, a fabled order made up of thieves, murderers, third sons, runaway soldiers and questionable sorts like himself, would reject them?

And, if rejected, would he be forced back to the Circle?

_Or_, he'd thought, stealing one more glance at Commander Cousland, her expression placid but her teeth working at her lips in a quirk that he'd one day realize meant she was pondering the deeply unpleasant, C_ould it be even worse? Like imprisonment or beheading?_Beheading would be such a shame, considering how much he loved his brain was in there. His eyes that saw wonderful things, his lips...his _tongue_...

_You were a shallow creature._

_I was,_Anders agrees with regret. _Although...I was just trying to distract myself._

_You should be focusing._

He's right. This is what they've been waiting for, what had moved him to join with Justice...an opportunity to do something more than hide in his clinic, or write or wait when waiting is torture due to the anticipation that still broke over him on an almost minute to minute basis.

But he's uncertain. His fingers work at the edges of the letter he's kept close since receiving it yesterday evening, a crisp sheet of parchment tucked beneath his clinic door. It bore no signature, just a faint watermark of AE in the lower, left-hand corner.

AE. _Araby Ever_. Before the alleyway confrontation, it hadn't been a name he'd ever heard, but Araby seemed to know much about Anders, and not _all_ of it gleaned from his partner through Karl.

His skin crawls. _Karl_. That first conversation had done nothing to placate Anders' concerns that Araby was dangerous, if only because of the casual way he dismissed Karl's tranquility and resultant death.

"_What did your_partner_do that involved Karl?"_

"_Theckla and Tobias shared common interests..." the man's eyes narrow. "A field of study I could not _possibly _understand, but that is of some interest to the Chantry and, thus, the Knight-Commander."_

Spirit magic. _Anders swallows back a foul tasting rise in bile. It's incredibly efficient when used against mages...Karl had often remarked that a mage with a strong tendency towards the spirit school could be a powerful weapon for the templars._

"_Were they lovers?" He asks not out of curiosity, but to get back at the man for speaking of his friend with such spite. "Or was their intellectual bond alone enough to make you jealous?"_

_The man laughs a loud and dangerous laugh and it echoes from the walls around them, up to Hightown, and Anders knows then that he should _never _let his down his guard around this man._

"_It's not _my_ jealousy that drew the templars' attention," he reaches into his wool jacket and withdraws a crumpled scrap of vellum, flinging it at Anders with clear disdain. He somehow manages to snatch it from the air and unfold it with hurried, trembling fingers._

_The script is his own. And, although there are no overt declarations of affection, the tone is familiar enough,_concerned_, that a paranoid party might see in it proof of an ongoing affair._

"_I was just doing what Tobias asked of me...he thought Karl would be better off free and if I inadvertently overstepped my boundaries and allowed implications to be made, well...it came from a very honest place and I assure you that Theckla was _not_ the intended victim," his smile is _anything_ but honest. "I would hate for this to sully things between us."_

"Things between us_?" Anders repeats in disbelief. "You led the templars right to _Karl_ to get back at _me_…who _are_ you that you think there are_ things between us_?"_

_This earns lowered brows and a slight frown. He's not used to being doubted or questioned._

"_Araby Ever. I coordinate an effort to aid mages in Kirkwall...it's the very thing you're looking for, and even your friend would vouch for our _usual_ success" he turns to leave. "I am extremely selective about the company I keep, mage. It took me this long to be convinced you could serve my interests...it wouldn't take much to result in a change of mind."_

_It's a slap in the face to be so doubted. But what he promises, if his effort is the one hinted at by Karl in his correspondence, is precisely that which Anders has been searching for in Kirkwall._

"_I'll cooperate," he bites at the edge of his tongue, praying that Justice can play nice, too. "Tell me what to do."_

_The man, Araby Ever, continues away._

"_Wait. You'll know when I need you."_

The note in Anders' hand reads: "I need you."

He'd asked about Araby, tentatively questioning his volunteers while under the assumption that Araby was an alias. To his surprise, they all knew of him. He lived on the Descent, that area between Hightown and Lowtown where the more successful merchants and made their homes. No word on his trade, or even on Tobias, but the fact that he existed as _Araby_ and wasn't a _known_ sociopath eased some of his disquiet when the summons finally arrived.

"_I need you."_

He's waiting in horizontal shaft for his next instructions, his staff emitting a dim fall of light, just enough that he'd not be tripped over or mistaken for the enemy by his next contact. While he understands the necessity for secrecy, this deliberate masking of plans is doing nothing to settle his nerves. Anders is, strangely enough considering his reputation, accustomed to being trusted, being kept close and informed. This night has been a puzzle of _go here_ and _look for this_, _turn left and stand up straight_.

It's more than simple paranoia...it _has_ to be.

A trap, then.

A trap makes sense. It's almost expected, to be honest. He's been living and working openly in the undercity, and he knows there are templars patrolling. Well, a _templar_. A lone templar who walks a solitary beat several nights a week. They never approach Anders' clinic, choosing to safely skirt the levels above, but they _must_ know, they _must_ have heard by now or maybe that crazy tit Cullen actually got his stammery head out of his ass and realized that the mage he saw whipping spells about that afternoon on the Wounded Coast was more than _vaguely_ familiar…

_Anders collapses forward in relief, his teeth grasping at the edge of one broad shoulder, the mouthful of woolen robes muffling cries of ecstasy that would otherwise echo right out of the small closet they've found themselves in._

_After a few moments of closeness claimed, of catching breaths and lingering release, he withdraws reluctantly, wincing at the feel of cold tower air as it replaces all-engulfing heat and he quickly shakes out his robes, his fingers knowing exactly where to pluck to make the fabric fall neatly to the toes of his boots. In front of him, Karl does the same, only he has smalls to worry with and, just before he can pull them up, Anders seizes a handful of bare ass, his fingers digging harder than necessary to elicit a yelp of surprise from his friend that might as well be a crack of lightning in the pre-dawn for the way it carries and causes both men to freeze as the threatening clang of plate armor answers and _immediately_._

_The men's responses are also ingrained. Lean against opposing walls, study fingernails or smooth down mussed hair or struggle to get proper…_

_Silently swings the closet door, a shaft of torchlight falling across their faces. Anders' is at half-smirk, readied as always to push at Ser Killjoy in exchange for whatever torment they can think up for him later. Since becoming a mage, and thus no longer subject to the whims of the knight-commander's judgment, he's developed a far more _openly_ caustic demeanor with all who bind him here._

_And _this_ one...his eyes narrow at the young, serious face that appears grave over its purple tunic collar. _Ah, Ser Cullen. The easiest.

_"If you're looking for Amell, I think she's a few doors down," Anders tilts his head, indolent, and then runs his eyes down the knight's breastplate in a mockery of interest. "Not that _you'd_ have any luck, but getting shot down has its charms. Or you might catch her at it with that cute little apprentice who always wears her hair in pigtails. Like handles, if you're creative...and if _I_ know Amell..."_

_Karl grits his teeth, the sound felt in Anders' bones and not so much heard. _

_"Please be quiet," the green templar speaks with sharp authority while exhaustion-shadowed eyes spark with a mixture of mortification and anger as they cut between the two men. His cheeks only start to redden _after_ his gaze dips below their necks where he sees something in the area of Karl that sends his head whipping to the side, eyes squeezed closed as he stammers out orders for them to return to their qu-quarters, or the l-l-library or wherever they sh-should be. _

_Anders giggles as Cullen retreats, that old familiar blackness at the pit of his stomach coating the sound in bitter as he turns to see Karl tugging at his robes, freeing them from where they'd gotten caught in the band of his not quite secured smalls. _

_"If we're lucky we've scarred the boy silent," Karl communicates in clipped tones and a muscle that flickers at his temple. He's gained a preference for beds and covers and the dignity of privacy, the thrill of the illicit no longer appealing now that they're both Harrowed. _

_"If _I'm_ lucky, we've scarred the boy silent," Anders runs his hand along Karl's stubbled cheek and ignores the way the man flinches at the show of something like affection that's undermined by the acrimony clear in Anders' voice. "If _you're_ lucky, he tells Irving and Greagoir and they have even more reason to love you."_

_"They're well aware of your skill," Karl's eyes meet his, and they're gravity, kindness and concern. And the slightest bit _fatigue_. "There's more than one way to get out, Anders."_

_"Complacency," as he snarls, his shoulders roll beneath the scratchy fabric of his robes and whatever pleasure had echoed through him before is knocked carelessly aside by irritation made all the sharper for its target. _He's the last person who should irritate me. _"And it's serving _their_ intent, and still answering _to_ them."_

_"Just be careful," one hand comes up, hovering just below Anders' chin for a few moments before it falls away in the face of hard-eyed resistance. "You know they'll be on higher alert for the next few days."_

_A sneer curls his lips at the truth of it. _You can't even steal a few moments for yourself in this place without bringing them down on you._ Karl leaves without another word or glance while Anders remains alone, leaning against the wall and allowing that old familiar blackness to do more than sit like a lead bearing in his gut. _All the walls have eyes, and the air around us ears. Every word I utter sharpens a blade to use against me, every note and intimate smile is a _trap_.

_But if you know in advance,_ in the alleyway he extinguishes his staff and allows his eyes to adjust to the oppressive darkness, keeping himself always mindful that he's got space to run and the sky not so far away. _If you know in advance, _you_ can have the advantage._

Ahead there is a gasp in the darkness and magic races automatically along his skin, restrained power flowing along his forearms to his fingertips and arcing just slightly beyond. If they know what to look for, they will see him.

And he will be ready.

The gasping breath continues, grows louder, and beyond it is the sound of rattling metal and voices barking short battle commands. Careful to not cast too much light, Anders summons a weak arcane shield. It's not enough to withstand a sword or shield to the stomach, but it will keep him from being knocked off balance should he be overtaken. Moving forward by inches, he holds his attention forward, waiting and then...

"Mage," it's barely audible, panicked to the point of foreignness, and Anders finds himself with an armful of someone he cannot see or know. "Distract them."

"_Distract_ them?" He feels the shoulders of the person in his arms, allowing a subtle glow to flare from his palms that illuminates the terrified face of a woman, age lines creasing her cheeks and a torn, bloodied cowl pulled below her eyebrows.

"The others...I think they were caught," she's pulling away, _pushing_ away and Anders is caught on the fact that he might be her only hope and she's _so afraid_ while Justice is surging within him in response to the threat the grows closer by the moment. "Please...I can't outrun them..."

And together they'd be just as slow, and she probably has no idea how to fight in any _meaningful_ way.

"I have a clinic...did they tell you where you were going?"

She nods, frantic, and follows with a low moan when a purr of malevolence sounds behind them.

"Oh, _Corinna_...Ser Alrik is going to be _so_ disappointed in you, my dear."

_Tsk. Tsk_.

_We will not stand for this-_

Corinna is shrinking rapidly, as if she's being dragged away by an invisible hand, but it's only Anders losing himself within as Justice turns away from the frightened woman to confront the templars who have formed behind him.

It is brutal.

Brief.

_Mercifully_ brief. There are only three of them and their leader is easily caught and twisted in Justice's _his_ _**their**_ furious grasp and the other two cower as the full force of what this _abomination_ can do...heat and wind and lightning leap the gap between them and they collapse under the unyielding force of it.

Justice compels the body forward.

They _burn_.

The stench of their flesh reaches Anders, trickles back like a distant memory of chaos in stone hallways, in tunnels and beyond the bars of his prison cell and it strengthens the hatred that drives them, pitiless and _monstrous_-

**"I AM NO _MONSTER_!" **

* * *

><p>Anders staggers out of the shaft, the scraps of his robes barely held together by his aching fingers and he can feel blisters forming where he'd grabbed at still smoldering armor, confused at the bodies and where was he and <em>when<em>?

_Maker please don't let them be people I know...not Karl _it's a woman _not Brand_ she's in Ferelden _Maker, please anyone but Wil..._and he couldn't confirm it but he knows he's not seen her, or felt her, or followed her and _she'd not be chasing a mage, tormenting a mage...it could never be her. _Please_._

His clinic door is closed and he fights back the urge to scream as he works the doors open, his flesh protesting and his stomach churning at the near unfathomable agony.

Corinna is in the corner, wrapped in a blanket and staring with vast, disbelieving eyes and he can barely muster a _please stay here for the night, you'll be safe_ because talking is so normal and he's anything but and she might _not_ actually be safe.

Unconcerned with her reaction, he finds the latest supply crate, searching through its contents for the solutions and salves that will help his hands. He does not trust himself to use magic, not when he's so confused, and even if he _did_ burns are tricky, no matter his skill. _So much potential for infection_, he's forcing himself to focus on the physical now, on lessons learned in the tower, on knowledge and nothing arcane.

After a few, frantic, moments he manages to unearth the components he needs, along with a few scraps of clean linen and a folded square of parchment.

A note...he catches it between two bottles. It can wait. His head tilts, and he sees something that sparks familiarity within him...a large and artful _V_, the mark of an artist who works in letters rather than paint or charcoal.

_Varric_.

He takes what he needs to his quarters, working quickly to empty astringent into a small basin on his dresser, ignoring the sting of a thousand needles as he soaks his hands and gently pushes at the charred skin with an unaffected finger, attempting to get beneath the loose bits to remove any dirt or contaminants.

Tears bite at his eyes, the product of pain and exhaustion and agonizing amounts of frustration as he struggles to care for _himself_ the way he cares for hundreds of people every week.

But he manages. Before he can faint from the pain he's able to dry his hands and coat them in burn salve, his own preferred blend that's almost shockingly effective to the point where his body arches in relief and the tension gripping his spine lessens just enough that he can clearly see to wrap himself and then, with the cautious curiosity of a recently chastened cat coming back for a second round of investigations, he pushes back the edge of the note to read a summon received too late.

_Blondie,_

_Word is Sunshine has joined you in the ranks of Wardenhood. Those of us relieved by the news plan on celebrating like it's Tuesday night- drinks, "dinner" and cards at the Hanged Man. _

_I'm told that "Join us" is a __proper__ invitation for a Warden._

_VQT_

_Tuesday...tonight._ Anders' eyes close and months of disappointment spill from beneath the lids. _So close._

_You saved a mage tonight, instead of avoiding._

_Avoiding joy, embracing what I really am...not a _monster_. But close._ He slips out of his ruined robes, glad that he chose to wear a scavenged set this evening, and falls into bed without removing his breeches or boots, his ravaged hands mitted and curled safely against his chest. Tears stream back, away from his eyes and into his hair that smells of sewage, smoke and charred flesh. He's too tired, too injured to wash and it's this he takes with him to sleep:

Another path taken, he has her in his arms, and his hands are _fine_, happy living things exploring and feeling her certain warmth as more than just the weight of a lost sister is lifted.

And then she's gone, almost as if taken by an invisible force, but it's only Anders losing himself within as Justice turns them away from _Wil_ to confront the doubt that has formed at the intersection of lost control, duty and humanity.

It is _brutal_.

* * *

><p><strong>Note from SF:<strong> First of all, thank you so much for everyone's reviews for the first chapter! I've never had such a lovely initial response to a story and it's incredibly appreciated.

Second of all, I am so sorry for the delayed update. I struggled all of last week with the first half of the chapter, only to lose it in a tragic hard drive meltdown on Friday evening. As a result, I had to do a lot of rewriting and am still not so thrilled with the results. Bleargh.

Third of all...things will be lightening up next chapter, I swear it!


	3. Anger

A bed makes things better.

Not the best, of course. Wil would tear the thing down to firewood and feathers if it meant being able to reclaim those she'd lost.

_More than those..._what_._

And although the bed is every bit as amazing as Varric's, if not a bit on the brothel-cave tip when the heavy velvet curtains are drawn, Wil still finds herself avoiding it until exhaustion has made her beyond worthless, walls and will the only things holding her up as she attempts to give Sandal small tasks around the estate so Bodahn can focus on whatever it is he does outside of financial stuffs.

The truth of the matter is that they _live_ with her and so much about them is slightly off and incomprehensible. Maybe it's the fact that she only really sees the dwarves when they're turning in for the evening or she's staggering up to her quarters as the morning sun splashes through the high estate windows, but she's not quite certain why they're _there_.

"Your mother seems to like them well enough," Aveline'svoice comes from somewhere behind her. "This bed isn't all _that_ great."

Wil rolls over to assess her friend. She's in full armor, sitting with her back pressed against the headboard and her long legs stretched in front of her.

"Because you're doing it wrong," Wil pulls at the silk sheets, useless for warmth but luxuriant against her skin, and curls her body into a cozy ball in demonstration. "But you'd have to not be wearing plate to get the full effect."

"I'll take your word for it," Aveline shifts and Wil feels the mattress sink for a moment as the woman moves to the edge and finds her feet. "Or I would, if I thought your word was worth anything these days."

The groan that pulls itself from Wil's throat startles them both. She'd completely forgotten a promise made to help Aveline with a patrol of the Lowtown bazaar this evening. While the invitation was extended out of dissatisfaction with Wil's slow return to normalcy, Wil knows that her friend could use the assistance.

Throwing off the sheets, she kicks her way out of bed and begins digging through her chest of drawers for appropriate garments to wear with her father's old gambeson and boots. It's been months since she's gone out heroing, save to patrol the undercity, and _nothing_ feels right as she strips off her linen nightshift and begins to dress for an evening playing guard.

"Do you know when you'll get your guardsmen back?" Wil forces herself to stop fumbling with the buckles along the inside of her jacket. Aggravation is making the simple task of fastening herself in an insurmountable undertaking. "Or does Viscount Dumas intend to stress your men to the breaking point just to appease the knight-commander?"

Aveline, seated at Wil's writing table and, from the soft rustling of parchment, helping herself to Wil's journal, is quick to respond.

"I wouldn't say it _that_ way, Hawke," her voice takes on a lecturing tone. "Meredith could be pushing much harder. Five mages have escaped the Gallows in as many months, and she _claims_ to have lost almost as many templars in the process. If loaning her guards to fortify the dock and Darktown means she doesn't start throwing around accusations, then I can pick up the slack as needed." She pauses and, even with her back turned to her, Wil can easily imagine the expression of frustrated concern tightening Aveline's features. "I know at least _one_ person who's being well served by this arrangement."

A witch hunt _would_ be dangerous...for all apostates in the city, but especially _high profile_ apostates. Wil's eyes fall closed as an unbidden sensation, little more than a brief flicker of warmth, fades into the dull ache that had finally settled in a few months ago and finds a permanent home in the neighborhood of her stomach. It's been over a year since she's seen him, and it's time passed in mutual silence. No notes or _letters. _No_ Blondie says _hi_, Hawke._

She's even stopped ordering his groceries herself, allowing Bodahn to make those arrangements, and for the supplies that get sent through Lirene. At some point she realized his continued survival didn't hinge on whose name went on the receipts. As long as she knows he has food, she's happy.

Well, not _happy_. Just less...

"So someone outside of the Gallows is clearly involved. Does Meredith have any suspects in mind?" Wil keeps her voice deliberately arch and exhales in victory as the last leather strap on her outfit is finally secured. If nothing else, the momentary distraction had given her some small advantage over her nerves.

Aveline scoffs. "Half of Kirkwall, if not more," she stands and gives Wil a quick inspection, tugging at fastenings and slipping her finger between the edge of Wil's gauntlet and her arm. Disappointment pulls the corner of her mouth down. "Apparently this happens every few years. Now that we're paying attention, the mages will wise up and stop. For a while, at least."

"And if they don't?" Wil asks too quickly, her chest growing tingly warm with something like anger that rushes up along her neck to turn her sharper. Her eyes narrow in an almost forgotten gesture. "I'd be willing to take my chances, were I a Circle mage. Or if someone I loved was in the Circle. It might not be smart, _survival_ wise, but mages don't always have the option to _be_ smart."

This earns an exhausted sigh as Aveline's fingers go to pinch the bridge of her nose, and she leans against the wall near the bedroom door. It's not difficult to ascertain that she's filtering what she _wants_ to say in order to not alienate Wil. Another night, yes, But not this evening, when she _needs_ assistance.

"Forget I said anything," she pulls at the edge of one of her pauldrons, a gesture of nervousness. "I'm just..."

"Saying what everyone around you says?" Wil knows she should back down, as Aveline had, but...no. She _shouldn't_ back down...not when Aveline has power, not when Aveline can sometimes be the difference between freedom or death or the Gallows. "What would _you_ do if you had no autonomy, no authority and were forced to serve a life sentence without crime?" She pushes through her bedroom door, allowing their discussion to spill into the open. "All the while being subjected to the whims of a bunch of fanatical lyrium-addicts who take what they want from you and nobody gives a good _fuck_."

"Shut your mouth, _Hawke_," Aveline's face is a terrifically and terrifying shade of _I'm going to kill you with my bare hands _red and it's only when Wil sees distant pain, evident in the deepening creases at the edge of Aveline's indignation-darkened eyes does she remember.

"I wasn't talking about...," it comes with a wince and a flash to the Blighted lands outside of Lothering and how for one foolish moment a handsome young templar had thought to place duty above survival. A naive one, Wesley, to think that the darkspawn were the only ones who would threaten him if he moved on Bethany. "_Aveline_."

The anger dissipates within Wil, and Aveline's broad shoulders sink as she backs away, too, although it's still visible on the surface and not necessarily meant for Wil.

"Forget I said anything," Wil echoes an earlier plea to receive a relieved nod in return. Normally, this argument would have lasted and turned all sorts of ethical corners, but tonight they'll both let it die unfinished. "Wow...I was actually a bit heated there for a second," she raises one brow, hoping that a goofy face will eradicate the lingering shadows that have fallen on Aveline. "I feel...maybe I should _thank_ you for that."

The other woman is momentarily lost, but she returns with a start. "Yes. Well, I wouldn't just yet...," she gestures to the staircase and follows Wil down to the main level of the estate.

It feels like a normal enough evening...Bodahn seated at the writing desk, running figures from the latest influx of gold brought in from the selling of an ugly tin-looking amulet that had, shockingly enough, turned out to be worth almost as much as the estate itself. Sandal is sprawled out just beside the hearth, Bello offering his back as a surface upon which the young dwarf can spread out a few stones and a sheet of parchment covered in cryptic markings that Wil's not certain he should be able to decipher.

Most importantly is Mother, her voice coming from the library where she's been spending more and more time after having found a cache of family records. She's using her _company but not special company voice_, usually reserved for the tradesmen brought in to work on the house and Wil's friends, but it's an especially strange flavor of painfully polite this evening.

Pushing at the partially closed door, Wil leans in, takes one look at who is on the receiving end of, "Growing up in Kirkwall, I never paid much mind to the city's guard," and pops her head back out to skewer Aveline the best she can without drawing her weapon

"Before you say anything, you should know that he volunteered. And without knowing you would be coming with me."

"I'm supposed to believe that?" Wil hisses, mortification more than anger turning her cheeks warm. "And you could have refused...or ordered somebody else to come along," she takes a few steps towards Aveline. "What about Brennan? That one guy, with the facial hair? Or _any_ of your guards that I _haven't_ slept with. Or dumped. Or...you know. Done asstacular things in front of."

Eyes roll upward. "He doesn't care, Hawke. And he's looking forward to catching up with you."

Wil frowns. "That just makes it _worse_."

"I could scowl a lot and try to trip you," the voice comes from just behind her, and is more amused than anything else. "If you'd feel better."

_Dammit, Sorrell._ She offers Aveline a parting glower and whips around to confront the elf who'd once been her...lover? No, _lover_ is too formal a word, and their..._togetherness_, as it was, could never be called formal. Fumbling in the dark of a tiny rented room beyond the slums, sneaking in and out of his bed under the cover of night, not because she'd been ashamed that he wasn't human, but because she never wanted it to be a _thing_.

"Hey, Hawke," his lips twist in a half smile and for a second, when he's all pink-cheeked from otherwise hidden embarrassment and his vivid violet eyes are catching firelight, and his hair, as messy as her own, falls across his forehead, it's easy to forget why she'd _had_ to walk away from him. "You've looked better."

There's no stopping her bark of laughter, and relief wells within, albeit mingled with sorrow. _Why not Sorrell? _is a question she's asked herself so many times before and it happens now as she remains momentarily stunned that it took him all of thirty seconds to turn her flaily sense of _awkward_ into something relaxed.

"Please don't tell me you're thinking of the _last_ time you saw me," she cringes, barely able to remember that night herself, coming as it had at the end of hours spent drinking and fighting back tears as all remnants of bravado and _hey, it's no big deal, I've just lost the best part of me in the Deep Roads_ were torn away and she'd somehow ended up in his apartment accusing him of ratting Bethany out to the templars.

Which he denied, of course, but not until he'd done the exact right thing and panicked over the thought of Bethany in the Circle and she knew immediately what a fool and an asshole she was to even _consider_ his involvement.

After that it had been a rambling, drunken telling of the truth, even the Andersy parts that she didn't actually want him to know because _ouch_. She and Sorrell hadn't been _lovers_, exactly, but they'd gotten closer than she liked to admit, and to know that she had been obsessed with another man even while she sought out _his_ company is not something he should have ever known.

She bites her tongue as she sees his brow wrinkle in the beginnings of a frown, a moment of recollection before smoothing over again.

"So why didn't you run the other way when Aveline told you I'd be coming along?" She peers into the library to wave at Leandra, who watches their conversation with a blank-eyed expression that means she's not hearing anything but the low hum of voices, the better to ignore her daughter's less savory dalliances and associations.

"Because _she_ intimidates me," he says it with an easy grin, cast past Wil to his guard captain. "And _you_ don't."

"So you don't _want_ to scowl a lot and try to trip me?" They move into the foyer before she pauses again. "I would, were I you."

His smile wanes and his fingers, left bare to maintain dexterity, run along the scar that twists across his right cheek and then push back through his hair in a farce of flippancy. "I've learned to just let it go."

_Just let it go. _

"Is that even allowed it Kirkwall?" She has one hand poised to let them out into the city. "This seems like a place that plants its pain in the stone and calls the twisted results _progress_."

"Pretty much," he smirks. "Although I imagine it's all easier to deal with from up _here_."

Had anyone else said it, Wil would have grown defensive, but Sorrell has somehow managed to work his way up from a childhood spent sleeping in his step-father's stall in the alienage market, canvas walls the only thing keeping out weather and bandits. He'd aspired to the very Lowtown slum she'd worked so hard to leave behind, and yet he's the one smiling in the balmy dusk of Hightown as they fall into step and begin their patrol.

_Just let it go._

It seems almost worth the effort.

* * *

><p>Anders shouldn't be surprised to see Isabela stroll into his clinic, a bloodied rag pressed to her shoulder and her eyes flashing insolence and embarrassment in equal measure.<p>

"Do you have _any_ idea what time it is?" He glances pointedly at the darkening sky beyond the vents in his clinic, and then again to the purple shadows that stretch past the entrance. It's too late for people to just _walk_ in and too early for her to be already _this_ injured.

He shouldn't be surprised when she shrugs and hops onto the closest cot, her head tilting away from her injury and a small sigh of _let's get this over with_ escaping bruised lips.

"Like I don't have anything better to do?" He pulls the makeshift tourniquet away to reveal an angry gash in her upper arm, the incision clearly the result of a solid sword strike. He has no idea how it isn't deeper, or how she still has her arm at all. "I suppose the Maker really _does_ watch over fools."

This gets her brows up, and her gaze comes back to him, but from the corner of her eyes. Under such scrutiny, he can feel his face grow warm as he realizes just what she's thinking by saying such a..._Hawke_ type thing.

"Still holding on, aren't you?" She winces as he pours an aggressive amount of astringent directly onto the wound. "Do you want me to just drag her down here and let you go at it? Or are you still pretending that you're above such distractions."

This time, his cheeks aren't the only part of him that becomes heated. There are longings in him that he's gotten quite adept at ignoring until he's alone in the night, and then there is the center of his mind and the unsubtle mockery in her tone presses him _there_ most of all.

"It must be nice to not care about anything besides drinking or fucking," he speaks in judgmental jabs as he carefully cleans her arm.

"I can't complain," she smirks, but her expression has gone wary.

"Neither can I," Anders places his entire palm over the injury and focuses as much of his energy there as he can, plumes of blue curling along her dark skin and illuminating her lovely features. After a few moments, he withdraws to expose a slightly raised mark, the flesh rejoined but permanently marked. "Doesn't mean I want to be reminded."

With a curt nod, he steps away and goes to wash his hands of her blood, leaving her to assess his handiwork with reluctant admiration.

"So that's why you hide down here in your pit, is it?" Over his shoulder, he can see her examining his desk _and how in Andraste's name did she get over there so quickly?_ "Tell me, Anders...does it really make it easier?"

_Easier_? _No_. He blinks and turns back to his task. He has nothing worth seeing on or in his desk, save his latest plans for systemic changes in the Circles. It's a new draft, unmarred by unconscious notes scribbled in the margins.

"Nothing in my life is easy anymore," he's speaking mostly to himself, _reminding_ himself. "I gave that up for something more important than me and what I _want_."

"_Please_," he can hear the eyeroll in her voice, and she's disconcertingly close. _Stupid rogues and their stupid _stealth. "You still have _needs_."

It's not her deliberate purr that turns his stomach liquid, or even the warmth of her near. He's _been_ with her. Or orgy adjacent, rather, and there's nothing for him beyond the lusty sway of her ample chest and the arrogant angle of her hips at rest. He's come to yearn for more than physical release, more than a mere body in a bed, or between him and a wall or a desk. An Anders from years ago is shaking his head within him, but even _that_ Anders hadn't been indiscriminate in his tastes. All of his former lovers, or at least the ones that mattered, had cared about something more than themselves, even if it was only _him_.

"Did I forget to give you the clear to leave?" He shakes the excess water from his hands before drying them. "Because I'm done with you."

_Done with you_ in every sense of the phrase, which gives her pause before her eyes narrow and her expression turns inscrutable. "I was actually offering to listen," she shrugs. "_And_ hoping for something juicy. But as you have...," she turns on the heel of one ridiculous boot and begins towards to door, "_better_ things to do with your time, I'll be on my way."

"So considerate," he grinds out, turning to watch her go, just to be certain. There's no prurient intent, and from the way Araby observes him from inside the entranceway, leaning back between the two doors, _he's_ noticing something. _No doubt to use against me_. Anders throws the towel aside and crosses his arms over his chest, forcing the other man to come to him or shout across the clinic.

"Hmmm," he finally realizes the extent of Anders' stubbornness and approaches, his black boots crunching on the grit strewn floor. "So I can also cross _women_ off the list of things that interest you," he stops at Anders' desk and takes an unceremonious seat on the edge, clearly unconcerned with the way it creaks beneath his substantial frame. "I should have known, considering..._well_. I suppose I would be thankful for your single-mindedness if you weren't putting us all at such substantial risk."

He's speaking with convivial airiness, despite the presence of two lines etched between his grey eyes that grow deeper with irritation the longer Anders bites back his tongue and keeps them in silence. Questions whirl within his mind, like dry leaves on an autumn wind they rustle and rise and plummet and disintegrate beneath a gaze of stanch fortitude.

"Tell me, ser mage," Araby spreads his hands in front of him, palms down, and Anders' notes the shape of them- broad with short, flat fingers. He'd been surprised the first time he'd noticed them, having not expected paws from a man otherwise so pointedly refined. "How many times have I requested your assistance?"

His fingers curl under one by one until the thumbs remain.

_We are not a child._

_No, we are not_, Anders' jaw aches from the force of self-restraint. _But he is a dangerous man...and he has connections._

"That's two," cold grey eyes meet Anders' and it rocks him at his core, Justice straining to the surface to say his piece and only a flash of Leora, the last apprentice they'd escorted out can stop him. Leora, barely past puberty and already claimed by the templars. Leora, given back to her doting aunt wrapped in wool blankets because she barely had enough flesh on her frame to warm her and was pained by even the most casual of physical contact. "And yet...you've managed to all but take over my operations."

"Is that what you call seeing it done right?" Anders exhales, unconcerned with toeing the line any longer. "You do well enough on the inside, but you withhold too much information from those you send in...the Gallows is too dangerous a place to infiltrate blind and the templars too strong for most you have working for you."

Araby stands, pushing off of the desk and shoving aside Anders' writings with no regard. On his feet, he's nearly a half head taller than Anders, but he refrains from coming closer, where his size could be better used for intimidation. Instead he smiles, almost sweetly, and the cold that unfurls in Anders' stomach could be one of his own spells for its potency.

"You were a Warden, were you not? Admired, if not feared, by your fellow Fereldans and in the company of the Hero himself-"

"_Herself_."

"Does it _matter_?" He slips for a moment, then draws a stabilizing breath to continue with pained politesse, "What does is this: you will _not_ act on behalf of the Mage Underground without being directed by me to do so."

Anders cannot match his guest's false manners and he's driven a few steps forward, his arms downs and his hands curling into fists against his thighs.

"Is this still about Karl and Tobias? Or do you _like_ losing your volunteers to your own paranoia?" He jerks to a stop and lets his frustration rage on ahead. "How many allies do you think the mages have in Kirkwall, let alone that are willing to risk the knight-commander's judgment should they be caught?"

The line is crossed, but Araby maintains a veil of composure over the teethsnapping rage that simmers in his eyes.

"I know _exactly_ how many worthy allies they have, and I have not lost a single _one_ of those," his voice is smooth, deliberate. "There is nothing I do without a reason, and I have no call to justify myself to anyone, let alone a mad healer in the sewers," his head snaps to the side, as this is too far for him. "You have no idea the complexity, mage, the balance that _I_ must maintain."

"Then I will work without you," Anders waves him off. "Now that I know the road, I will gladly travel alone if that's what it takes to see these mages freed."

"If you wish to bring the wrath of the templars down on every mage in the Gallows and every citizen in Kirkwall who has so much as glanced favorably in the _direction_ of a mage, then do your best," Araby is back, gazing down on him with open loathing. "Meredith has even enlisted an old friend of yours to help staunch the flow of mages from her prison. Unless we stop, the Underground will be disbanded and all the Circle punished for the freedom of a few."

Anders barely hears what he says, his brain caught _on an old friend of yours_ and surely he doesn't mean _Wil_. Or maybe it _is_...from the way Varric and Anders' volunteers talk when he can manipulate the conversation to her, Lady Hawke has not taken on her mantle with as much grace as Leandra had hoped. _Lost_ is a word often used, his heart twisting painfully at the thought of it, of her sure smile turned hesitant, of her convictions crumbling to dust in the absence of the one for whom they were forged.

But to aid the templars...that would be a complete reversal of her feelings on the Circle, and unless she'd gone absolutely mad with grief...

"Anders," it's barked and Anders' attention jerks back to the man in front of him. "Maker help me, if you weren't so useful...," Araby takes a few steps back, his eyes on the exit. "The Underground will cease to exist for at least a month, if not longer. I would advise against any foolish notions of acting alone, or even leaving Kirkwall. If you were so inclined."

"I...," a _month_. He could wait a month, even with Justice pressing him to act. He's not going to risk inciting the Knight-Commander to more extreme measures. "It's not fair that they can do this, hold the well-being of innocents hostage to control our actions, to impede us."

The expression on Araby's face is inscrutable.

"Why don't you be a smart boy and put it in your manifesto instead of threatening _my_ hard work," he kicks at a stray page on the floor of the clinic before continuing out, leaving Anders alone to fetch the piece of parchment, brushing off dirt the best he can. Anger uncoils beneath his skin, hot and honest.

The Mage Underground has afforded him a chance to _act_, and has given him _hope_ that there might be support outside of the Circle...but even non-mages aren't allowed to openly support their cause without risking their necks to do so.

Parchment is burning before he even realizes he'd cast the spell, and he allows the charred parchment to spill like black snow from his trembling fingers, unconcerned with the work lost to his rage.

Araby Ever has given him cause to begin an entirely new draft, and he will chase dawn with his words, his passion as pointed as the quill that scratches line after line, unbroken thoughts and memories that not only give form to the anger stirred by condescension and denial, but also _relief_ from the usual insatiable need that comes for him in the night.

Isabela had more than a _few_ things right.

* * *

><p>Wil isn't allowed to argue with Aveline in the brig, nor is she to question her in front of any guard.<p>

The Hawke estate, with Sorrell left safely behind at the Keep, his parting wave accompanied by a smile and a sympathetic wince, is safe. Wil can turn on her friend, who is already raising her hands in defense before a single syllable is uttered.

"I have a duty to this city, Hawke," Aveline leans back against the door, exhaustion and perhaps the beginnings of guilt settling in fine lines around her eyes. "I can't just look the other way when I see a crime being committed. Not when I'm on patrol."

"They were _children_, Aveline, and half starved at that," Wil is so wound, her nerves taut and thrumming with self-righteous fury. It's as if their earlier disagreement had opened up something within her, forced her to stop sleepwalking and feel more than her own pain.

"Not in the eyes of the law," Aveline refuses to rise up to Wil's level, her voice maddeningly steady. "They stole. They shopkeeper caught them and wanted them arrested. I _had_ to arrest them."

"You didn't _have_ to take them to the brig!"

"So I should have turned the corner and set them free with a good scolding?" She's incredulous.

"Why not?" Wil begins pulling at the buckles on her jacket and they fight her just as they had earlier in the evening. "The ten minutes in custody would have been punishment enough...they had _tears_ in their eyes."

"You're being irrational," Aveline's gauntlet is loud against the bronze door handle as she sees herself out. "We can talk about this tomorrow, if you're still inclined to jump to conclusions and tell me how _I_ should do _my_ job."

With a flash of orange and plate, Aveline disappears back into Hightown. No thanks given, nor good-byes.

"I take it the audition didn't go well," Isabela allows the following footfalls to be heard after eavesdropping from a silent shadow. "No Guardsman Hawke in the near future?"

_Guardsman Hawke_ is the most laughable notion; even if Aveline had taken a blow to the head and forgotten that she knew a woman named Hawke, _Guardsman_ Hawke would never be a consideration. Wil turns back to the pirate, allowing her eyes to run the length of Isabela's face, and down her neck, the exposed skin radiating near visible warmth. Even though it's comfortable in the estate, there's a small part of her that would not object to being held against Isabela's curves and heat this evening.

_Perhaps it's all this _feeling, Mal's jacket slips down her arms and she catches the long tail of it to fold neatly against her stomach. Perhaps it's another thing uncorked..._anger, defiance, lust._

"You have a nice place here," Isabela continues, one arm gesturing to the foyer. Wil's close to explaining to her that there's more to the estate than _this_ when she notices the bandage on Isabela's other arm, and how she's holding it so close to her body.

"What happened to you?" Wil raises one brow in near concern. Isabela is not often injured, much of her strategy in a duel being not getting hit_, _on account of all the near-nakedness.

She glances down at the bandage, face brightening even as her shoulders twitch in dismissal. "Sometimes one of these louts I challenge gets lucky."

_Speaking_ of challenges..."I think I'd prefer a different sort of luck...one that ends in bruised and sweaty bliss and not _bloodshed_."

"Because you're a woman," laughter trails the words, and it's more genuine than Isabela normally allows. Inviting. Wil feels the gentle pull forward, compelled by slightly more than a desire for warmth. "No risk of you confusing the sword you _think_ with for the sword you _fight_ with." Amusement drifts down to somewhere just above full-blown seduction, "And I think you know where _my_ preferences lie."

"Tempting," forced insincere, it's Wil's attempt at keeping the pair of them above board, knowing how doubtful it is that Isabela came here looking for an easy fuck. "But you broke into my home for another reason altogether."

Dark eyes narrow in a lapse into frustration before she saunters closer to Wil, her posture gone neutral in understanding. "I need your help."

"_That_ goes without saying," Wil teases and receives a quick knock against the side of her boot.

"I have a lead on the to-_relic_, and a rapidly closing window in which to act," her head dips to the side in indication of her heavily bandaged arm. "I'd appreciate it if you could come...watch my back."

It's a deliberate call to Wil's very first offer of support, made _ages_ ago.

"I've been occasionally capable of such," she shakes out her gambeson, readying it for reapplication when Isabela's hand stops her.

"This is going to require a more..._subtle_ approach."

"Oh," Wil's shoulders drop and somewhere in her stomach the first flickers of real excitement in over a year make themselves felt. "You do realize neither of us are what _anyone_ would call _subtle_?"

"Which is why this adventure might be incredibly _fun_," Isabela smiles, white teeth flashing against the dark of her skin like a moonlit wave in an otherwise unseen sea. "And I can't help but notice that _you_ could use some."

* * *

><p><strong>Note from SF:<strong> Finally finished with this one! Dialogue ahoy!

I just want to say thank you a million times for all the amazing reviews. wasn't letting me respond last weekend, but rest assured I get them and I hug them and appreciate every word of feedback.


	4. Farces

"So the plan is for _me_ to have tits and act like _you_, for _you_ to dress like a Chantry sister-"

"Not an actual Chantry sister," Isabela corrects her. Her usual abundance of gold and flesh has been replace with modesty and delicately mussed tresses that swing freely around her shoulders. "We'd never get out of the room were _that_ the case."

"True," Wil fights back a rush of blood. "Maker's breath, Bela. Can't we just break into this guy's room and wait for him to come back up, drunk and vulnerable?"

"_Hawke_," it's merry admonishment. "Now where's the fun in that?"

"Where's the _danger,_ you mean," her own nervous fingers run along the tight bodice that forces her breasts into distracting prominence. Wil has the _completely_ valid suspicion that this entire ruse is nothing more than a way for Isabela to amuse herself.

"Oh, so _fretful_. You look like your sister right now." Dark eyes assess the room they're about to leave behind. It looks as if noblewoman's boudoir has exploded, scraps of delicate fabric artlessly flung around the roughhewn funiture. The mess is deliberate- besides the daggers Wil's certain Isabela has concealed beneath her voluminous skirt, they are going into this unarmed. What can't be seen beneath the mess of smallclothes is a small arsenal of blades.

And a few bombs. Wil's uncertain how _that's_ supposed to work in such close quarters, and Isabela's nonchalance on the matter has done nothing to allay her doubts.

"So are you going to at least tell me what this relic is before I risk my life, or at least my self-respect, for its acquisition?"

"No," forthcoming as always on the topic, Isabela chucks Wil beneath the chin with her knuckle. "And stop pretending that you have any dignity, Hawke. I'm surprised you haven't offered to just stroll up to him naked and ask if he wants to join you in your room for a quick _thing_."

"The thought _had_ crossed my mind, but-"

"But what? I've not seen your ass _once_ since you came back from the Deep Roads, and it's starting to make me think less of you," she frowns. "Did getting rejected by that mage destroy your sense of _fun_? Because what I wouldn't give to go back in time and break that bit of news to him, preferably when he's balls deep in someone's ass and up to his shoulders in my-"

"_Stop_," Wil's eyes water with the suddenness of her jealousy, sharper than she knew herself capable. It's almost upsetting in the wake of the dulled resignation she normally feels when her thoughts turn to Anders. It's easier for her to think of him as unobtainable in every sense, an illusion that is shattered by the existence of former lovers and those who have seen him being very much _obtained_.

Pity and annoyance mingle on Isabela's face. "All I'm trying to say is that _he_ can hardly think less of _you_. If _that's_ what you're worried about."

"It's not," Wil responds flatly, knowing that it's _guilt_ that dampens her when she's at her most sober. Guilt is one thing she'd _gained_ after the Deep Roads- for her sister's fate, for her mother's anguish and now for her own desires that are just desires and not rooted in anything deeper or selfless.

"If you'd really prefer to ambush him, we can," dark brows knit together at the thought of compromise. "But my plan is far more fun."

She's right.

"And _dangerous_," Wil's tone is grudging agreement and it comes with the beginnings of a forced smile. At the very least, there will be booze at the tavern. That should loosen her nerves enough to actually make this whole thing, and maybe more, seem like a good idea. "What's this place called again?"

Isabela smirks. "The Pickled Feet."

"Ironic, I hope," Wil sighs and bounces on her heels, working herself up to seduction as if it's a duel and not..._with Isabela, _everything_ is a duel. _"How bad can it be, really?"

* * *

><p><em>Note to self, do not doubt the implications of a tavern named The Pickled Feet.<em>

Wil closes her eyes and forces herself to breathe through her mouth, which is utterly distasteful but slightly less so than the alternative. This place makes the sewers of Kirkwall seem like the Viscount's gardens.

"I hate you," she hisses to Isabela.

"That's too bad," Isabela purrs in response, her good arm tightening around Wil's neck and her mouth coming close to _nuzzle_. "Because I think you're _fantastic_."

_Oh, Maker._ It takes a long, shuddering breath to work through _this_- a sudden heaving of desire in a formerly empty place that throws her vision completely out of focus and she _needs_ to be focused. Their mark is just across the bar, chasing bowls of lukewarm stew with mouthfuls of barely alcoholic swill that would be rejected by the regulars at the Hanged Man for being one step above grey water.

It's just a man. A man that Isabela _swears_ will be completely taken by their current ruse because getting into a fight here, in a seedy bar up the Wounded Coast and outside of the jurisdiction of social control, would probably not end up going too well for them. The pirate _community_ is, according to Isabela, shockingly insular and she's not in with any of the crews that currently comprise the majority of the crowd around them.

Fifty strangers with daggers and hands and alcohol compromising morals that Wil can't imagine are the sturdiest to begin with, and here she is in a leather corset and with cleavage for the first time _ever_ while Isabela clings to her like a scared kitten even while her fingers restlessly grope the length of Wil's velvet clad thighs.

"What in Andraste's name are you looking for?" This pass is precariously close to a place where Wil's not quite ready for anyone to yet be.

"Checking for a blade." She's the picture of innocence even as she lingers, forcing Wil to inch her hips back against the rough wood wall behind them.

"What the- Who would keep a _blade_ right _there_?" Wil takes Isabela's wrist and pulls it up, bringing the bare hand to her lips and allowing them to caress along the back of her knuckle. From the way the eyes that fasten on her own grow darker with approval, and from the increased amount of attention they've garnered from the neighboring tables, Wil's successfully masked her protest. "Please tell me he's looking."

Isabela's gaze shifts for a second before returning triumphant; her lips twitch into a lightning quick smile.

"The red haired man is the only one we need," she leans forward and presses her mouth against Wil's jaw, her arm draped possessively over Wil's chest. "Make eye contact...and for fuck's sake _try_ to be alluring."

"Your faith in me is _touching_," Wil's knees slam together in defiance of the hand that attempts to find its way back between them and she looks up, searching across a dim room to find the unfortunate soul who has anything that Isabela desires to possess.

He's plain, his jaw is too wide and his nose has been broken too many times. His hair is a frosty shade of orange, lighter than Aveline's and unnatural in the lamplight that spills across his crown. He has eyes, narrow slits in a sun burnished face and Wil can't tell if he's looking at her or not, but this is her chance and she can't not be _alluring_ or whatever it is she's supposed to be doing.

_This entire thing is a farce_, she bites her lip and allows herself to feel the weight of Isabela against her arm, to forget who the woman is and _why_ they're here and pretending to be lovers. Not that pretending is difficult when it comes to the physical response to such ample motivation. It's been awhile and if she's being honest, under different circumstances...

...her knees drift apart at Isabela's insistence and her cheeks grow warm from the deliberate drawing of deft fingers in small, teasing circles that refuse to offer anything deeper than arousal. Then there are the teeth that pull at her earlobe and the palm that skims across her back and shoulders and an abundance of _warmth_, of welcoming flesh separated from her own by nothing more than a few thin layers of fabric.

_That_ does it, as something like fire ignites beneath Wil's skin and no doubt makes her a beacon for every man in the room, but especially the ginger-haired gentleman with the _information_.

Isabela has abandoned nibbling to whisper their next move, her hand falling still and lust no longer radiating from her skin. Like a summer storm, she can cease to exist so suddenly and Wil is thankful for the reprieve. Her thoughts can turn back to _safety_ and not dwell upon what's happening to her in places that are far from important to survival.

"We need to get upstairs to our room," the words ruffle the hair next to Wil's ear. "He follows, we invite him in, then..."

"Jump him," Wil turns, her nose nudging at Isabela's.

"Tie him up," Isabela does not flinch at the contact.

"Take what we want," it comes out with a dangerous smile, crooked and sharp with meaning.

"Hmmm," the hand is back in motion and Wil's smile is lost to a gasp, only to be salvaged on Isabela's dusky lips. "Take what we _need_ then come back for what we _want_ later."

"Only we won't want _him_," Wil's hands, which have been heroically still for most of the evening, find themselves full of Isabela, of firm backside and soft breast and her mouth closes the miniscule gap to push her lips against Isabela's in a kiss as fervent as it is false.

And the spectators betray their attention with whistles, which is to be expected. In that moment, Wil realizes how little she likes being on _open_ display, especially when Isabela's arm tightens around her neck so tongues can get involved and she's more aware of the _eyes_ on her than she is anything _pleasurable_.

_This is a farce_. Wil forces herself to get caught up and seemingly lost in a moment that pushes the boundaries of their cozy spot in the corner of the tavern and spills into a table of sailors next to them, Isabela panting apologies between kisses and tugging at her skirt which has _somehow_ managed to inch perilously high up her leg. Before they can be lost in a sea of searching hands, Wil guides them along a narrow path through the dining room, her hand secure on Isabela's ass.

"One more look back," Isabela gives the final instructions accompanied by a stealth grope of Wil's chest. Wil does as she's told, casting an inviting glance over several interested sailors until she finds the red-haired man staring after them and all it takes is a summoning tilt of her head and a ghost of a seductive grin before he's rising from his chair to seek them out in the inn that's adjacent to the bar. "_Good_ girl."

Ignoring the patronizing tone, Wil pulls her out of sight, carefully maintaining the ruse even as they stumble out of one doorway and into another and then up a flight of stairs which leads down a narrow hallway. Feet tangle in their ostensible rush to their room, and once there Hawke fumbles with the key. Isabela is wrapped around her, chin digging into a dip in her shoulder and palms pressed with genuine urgency low on Wil's abdomen and creeping downward and it's difficult to figure out whether the knobby part of the key should go up or down or-

"Why _hello_ there," the voice is unnaturally low, and Wil can feel the pressure of his hand on her forearm. "Waiting for _me_?"

Isabela refuses to let Wil respond, instead resting her cheek between Wil's shoulder blades in a show of possessiveness.

"You'll have to take _both_ of us," she purrs and there's no mistaking the way the red-haired man's breath catches at the luck of it all.

_Sucks that his luck is about to change._ With the door opened, Wil pulls Isabela in after her before summoning the man with a crooked finger and wicked grin.

He pauses, just outside of their room.

"I have..._friends_ who will come looking for me," his hands run up a small potbelly. "I should let them know I'm-"

_Dammit_. _Friends_ would complicate their already precarious situation, especially considering he wasn't even in their room...he could become distracted or, worse yet, _not alone_ at any moment and Wil and Isabela are vulnerable without weapons.

In front of her, Isabela's silk-clad shoulders shift back as one hand reaches to pluck at the man's shirt front and she transforms herself into a writhing, beckoning beacon of carnal desires- all hips and forward-thrusting bosom and fingers that stroke down freckled cheeks and push through salt-water stiffened hair.

Wil remains still, listening for the sound of feet in the hallway, holding her breath until the door to their room slams shut seconds after the man is safely inside and intent on the chestnut-eyed temptress who works at his neck in teasing nips even as he urges Wil to join them with an outstretched hand.

"She was yours first," he gasps, Isabela sinking into him and her hands restless around his waist.

"Easy, _sweet thing_," it's two steps forward before Wil is close enough to breathe into Isabela's ear. "If you move too fast, you might..."

"Might what?" The pirate leans back against Wil, hands remaining on the man.

"Upset the delicate balance of things."

"Ah," her head tilts. "How about _this_?"

The man yelps in surprise as Isabela pulls away from him, the glint of silverite between them an alert that she's no longer in the mood for games.

"So we're just doing this. For the love of...," Wil grabs a wad of silken smalls from the nearest table, her fingers wrapping around the sword hilt hidden beneath. Isabela has ducked behind the man, whose mouth is wide and readied to shout for help. _Help would be bad. _With Isabela so close to their target, and knowing that she wants him alive, Wil hesitates to use the blade. Instead she weighs her free hand, curling it into a steady fist before she makes a calculated swing into his nose, the sound of cartridge crunching against her knuckles as sickening as it's been every time she's punched someone in the face. Plus, it _hurts_. She shakes her hand out with a frown, "I _hate_ doing that."

"Bitch!" Blood flecks out with the invective. "Both of you!"

"_Ouch_." Isabela helps herself to a handful of his hair and yanks his head back, exposing his neck and she's got that _look_ in her eye that's part unbridled bloodlust and part concern for the safety of her ass. "Here's the thing...that word has _never_ bothered me."

"Whore," he twists frantically to shake her off.

His struggle is met with charming laughter.

"I have a friend who calls me that as a term of endearment," she shifts her stolen dagger so that the tip nudges his jugular and Wil takes the opportunity to reposition herself with her back pressed to the door.

"She calls you that because she thinks you're a _whore_," her exasperation is for the wrong thing.

"_Now_ she does...she'll learn to love me eventually," the picture of relieved flippancy, Isabela smirks around their captive's bloody visage and the entire scene is almost laughably macabre.

"Can we just ask him about the relic and go?" Wil's eyes linger on the stream of crimson coating his upper lip and chin. "Weirdly enough, I am not a fan of _bleeding_."

"_Yes_." Knife pricks, Isabela pulls and the man grimaces with too many pains to put into words. "There was a shipwreck about a year ago...word is that you and some of your friends have been working on recovering it."

"Aye, bitch," his feet shuffle against the rough floorboards and Wil hears an echo of footsteps in the hallway. "We have the _right_ to anything we find."

"Of _course_ you do," she states with a shrug. "That's practically my personal motto. But there's also this- _I_ have the right to take back what's _mine_."

"_Yours_ in a manner of speaking," Wil's voice is deliberately even. The footsteps are getting louder and they sound _large_. "But let's just cut to the crux of the matter...if you don't tell her where the relic is, she'll kill you."

"You know it," Isabela flashes a wide smile, meant for Wil. "And since the relic, or any coin you make from selling it or finding it, is worthless to a dead man..."

"Like you won't kill me even if I give you the location." His dark hazel eyes dart to the door; reflexes tighten Wil's grip on the sword.

"Maker's breath, man. We're not _murderers_," her lower lip pushes out ever so slightly. "Well, except when we _are_. Right now, we just- _she_ just wants the bloody thing that she's been told _you_ have."

"Listen," he pulls away from Isabela's dagger, perhaps seeing something more rational in Wil. "I was told where to look and to take everything I could. I stuck it all in a cave."

"Of _course_ you did," Wil rolls her eyes.

"And does anyone _else_ know about this cave?" Isabela is far less amused.

"Just my...associates. The ones who helped recover and move everything. Listen," defeat practically wafts up from his skin and he begins to fidget around his waist. "They don't get paid until _I_ get paid and as they had to set aside a lot of fancy stuff, they're a little itchy on that end. Since I-"

"There's a map," Wil re-checks the lock on the door before striding towards the man, her sword kept threateningly aloft as her hand plunges into a leather pouch on his hip. The scroll she pulls out is met with anger and relief on the two faces in front of her. He, in particular, is turning a fantastic shade of scarlet. "You should have held still."

The dagger is still close to her captive's throat, but Isabela manages to work her way around him so that the contents of the scroll are revealed to her as Wil sees them.

It's a drawing of the Wounded Coast, along with a few neatly scrawled notes and an especially helpful tip about only being able to access the cavern at low tide.

"It was meant for my contact. I was waiting for a messenger in the bar, and I," guilt shifts over his features before anger overtakes it.

"Poor boy, and you threw it all away for a chance to get laid," there is a hardness beneath the suddenly cheery surface of Isabela's words. Her gaze turns to Wil. "We need a few minutes to get ready . Can you knock him out without killing him?"

Wil and the man both balk, but _she_ shrugs it off. "Probably. But before I do, I want to know...spiders?"

"Sod off," he kicks at her. "I'm not _telling_ you anything, you doglord bitch."

"That means spiders." _Blighted spiders_. A sigh shudders out of her before she dutifully smacks him with the pommel of her sword, making solid contact just behind his jaw and stepping quickly away before he can collapse on her boots. "Remember how I said I hated getting covered with spider guts?"

Isabela is already out of her dress and pulling on something more familiar.

"There won't be spiders," she tugs her boots up with purpose and steps carefully over their unconscious guest to retrieve her own daggers. "And if there are spiders, just remember how _very_ much I appreciate your assistance."

* * *

><p>"So there were spiders," Wil points to her sodden and gut covered gambeson where it's spread on a dry outcropping in the cavern and bathed in morning sunlight that has broken through the stone above them. "And you don't seem particularly appreciative."<p>

The only thing Isabela appears to _particularly_ be is very, very angry.

Enraged, even, and it's strange to see on Isabela...such a _depth_ of emotion as she confronts crate after crate of, in her words, worthless horseshit intended to distract potential smuggles (_other_ smugglers) from the true treasure.

And the relic? Nowhere to be found. Apparently.

"So you don't know what the relic _is_, but you're certain that you know what the relic _isn't_?" Wil's not sure that makes any sense. "Or are you just that familiar with the Siren's cargo?"

"I'm not in the mood, Hawke," a pair of wool stockings whiff past Wil's head.

_I wasn't _trying_ to be funny. Or a smart ass. _

"I was just _curious_," she mutters, shifting uncomfortably. Between having to swim out to the cavern's entrance and then stumble through a half mile of infested tunnels, she's not the most comfortable. With Isabela on a tear, and acting more inclined towards manslaughter than heading back to Kirkwall for a nice cup of warm cider, she doubts she'll get the opportunity for comfort any time soon.

"_Balls_," Isabela tugs open another crate and, in the time it takes for Wil to lift a bemused eyebrow, _frustration_ becomes a full on tantrum. Objects are insulted and crates are thrown, most clattering harmlessly against dark walls well away from where Wil stands. One, though, lands at her feet and even as Isabela continues her tirade, Wil hazards a glance inside.

More stockings.

"Shit. FUCK. _Balls_."

A boot. She lifts it carefully to her nose, having decided _someplace_ in her lizard brain that it's a good idea. One sniff proves otherwise.

"...No. Stabbing is too quick. I'll give you trace amounts of that root that causes priapism and then make you watch while I seduce your mother and give her a night of pleasure the likes of which she has _never_ known-"

At the bottom is a small parcel full of letters.

Not letters. _Poems_.

"This should be good," Wil holds the aged parchment closer to the sunlight, taking a moment to admire the admittedly well-drawn filigree that brand the corners of the page.

_To you I would never lie  
>Of all the dreams I've of your eye<br>The perfect orb of blue and white  
>And darkness centered but without spite<em>

"_Score_."

"_Dammit_," this is _not_ angry.

Wil glances up to see Isabela seated in the center of a cavern, her shoulders down and her wet tunic foul with cavern sludge and mud. She is the picture of defeat and that is the _most_ wrong.

Approaching in as close to silence as Wil can, she takes a careful seat next to her friend and leans back on one hand, the other still holding the poems.

"Hey," she begins, but it's an attempt that dies in her throat as Isabela's chin drops and her face turns away. Just slightly, but Wil notices. _I should leave her alone...Maker knows I wouldn't want anyone to see me like this. _

But she doesn't leave.

"_Your soul is like water_," Wil keeps her gaze on the paper. "Filling the vessel before me, beside me, beneath me, beloved by me. It flows into crevices touched, runs along peaks mounted. Your breasts swell as waves do when I dip my fingers below the surface. Ripples, satisfaction, wetness and need."

"It sounds like you're trying to seduce me, Hawke," Isabela exhales, her posture straightening.

Wil continues to examine the page, taken aback by a sudden realization that she's not the one needing cheered for once. After a prolonged silence, she finds her voice to respond, "I thought I'd get to you before that guy at the Hanged Man does. Varric mentioned an attempted serenade a few weeks ago."

"Don't remind me," her palm presses to her forehead, traces of a smile moving her lips. "Oh my dove, my buttercup. Graceful, tall and brown!"

"Ha!" Wil lowers the poems and tries to envision Isabela's face when he laid _that_ on her. "Did he really say _that_?"

"He did."

"Was the next line 'Oh my heart, wearing white, leather and gold'?"

"Nope," her head falls back. "The next line was 'I suppose I _would_ rather keep my tongue'," wrinkles appear on her brow. "In retrospect, I was probably a little _too_ harsh."

"Apparently not, since he was still there the other day, pining from a far."

"I doubt he was _pining_," she gets to her feet and offers Wil assistance up. Besides filth, there's nothing in her demeanor to suggest disappointment or frustration. Instead she's looking Wil over with shrewd intent. "I owe you, Hawke. I _also_ think we should head back to the Hanged Man and finish what we started last night."

It's an unambiguous invitation. A _serious_ invitation and Wil's not going to pretend that the prospect isn't intriguing in the worst way, especially now that she's remembering what they'd gotten up to the evening before and how many lines Isabela had walked her fingers over, ignoring boundaries as was her wont as she pursued uncharted areas of the map.

Heat licks along Wil's stomach, caused both by the memory of this woman's touch and the anticipation of more. It was practically guaranteed to be amazing, and the idea of having her thoughts consumed by something else for a change is so...

"Why don't you come over to the house instead? Mother was going to make these fantastic cookies with nuts and you _propositioned_ me and I am offering you baked goods," the words spill from her lips unminded by any sort of actual thought process. "I have just been overtaken by the spirit of Merrill."

Far from being offended, Isabela laughs it off.

"Sometimes baked goods are what a woman needs, whether she knows it or not," she waits as Wil gathers her coat, wincing at its stench before pulling it on. "Although I don't know how your mother will react to..." she gestures to her general filthiness.

"She's known me my entire life and she raised another one even more inclined towards disgustingness than _I_ am...don't worry about it," Wil gingerly flicks off what might actually be part of a spider leg and offers Isabela a smile that's meant to be comforting.

And _genuinely_ comforting, the sort that can only be offered by someone who is, no matter how temporarily, in a decent _ish_ place themselves.

* * *

><p>Leandra isn't quite certain what to make of Isabela when Isabela is clad only in a silk robe tailored for Wil's lanky frame and, thus, struggling to perform its function when tasked with containing Isabela's more outgoing features.<p>

The fact that she's able to move at all without a breast popping out is an actual achievement.

"So...where exactly did you stay, Wilhelmina?" Leandra's eyes can't stop darting over to where Isabela is seated, a cookie in one hand and a small blade in the other as she etches into the wooden tabletop. Wil's seen her handiwork at the Hanged Man...no doubt she'll have to sand it out herself to save a litany of mortifying questions from Sandal.

"Um, stay?" Wil pulls her gaze from Isabela and frowns. "Well, we didn't stay anywhere, really. There's this place up the coast called Free Kirkwall-"

"_Free_ Kirkwall?" Leandra repeats, dimly.

"Yeah. And, in the grand naming tradition of the Free Marches, it's exactly what it sounds like," eyes rolling, Wil glances back towards Isabela, who shrugs. Her attention is consumed with her art. "It's basically a lawless, whore-ridden port where pirates do most of their business."

For a moment, Leandra's face freezes in mortification. Then, as if remembering which child she's speaking too, relief takes its place in the softening of her features

"Maker's breath, darling. You had me worried for a second," she takes a sip of her tonic, smiling demurely over the edge of her tumbler. "Ivetta is trying to talk me into a trip to Starkhaven when she goes next month with her son. It's too bad, actually. He's a handsome boy, but it seems he's having some difficulty finding a suitable wife here in Kirkwall."

"Subtle," Isabela murmurs.

"Subtle," Wil echoes with a smirk. "Should I put you off by spending the next few days trying to guess the horrible flaw that you and Ivetta aren't seeing, or can I proclaim myself not interested right now and save us all the trouble?"

Leandra's face settles into delicate disapproval. "The Amell estate will cease to exist without another generation of Amells. And your cousins in Ferelden hardly seem inclined to nobility."

"The differences between them and myself are staggering," Wil forces a cookie into her mount before she can elaborate further. As far as Leandra knows, Wil is mostly content with their new life.

"Perhaps Hawke's just a Lowtown girl at heart," Isabela supplies helpfully. "I know _I_ like it down there. The stench, the humidity. The who-"

"Mistress," Bodahn interrupts Isabela before she can mortify Leandra anew, and Wil discretely kicks her friend beneath the table while maintaining her most accomodating smile. "You have a visitor."

"Oh," she glances down at her robe as she stands. "I hope it's someone who doesn't care to see me like this."

"It's your friend, the, uh...?" Bodahn's uncertainty casts little doubt that he's speaking of Fenris.

"Is there a sign outside of my door that says 'Open for Business'?" Wil wonders aloud as she enters the foyer to find the elf sitting on one of the benches, hunched over so his elbows rest on his knees and his gauntleted fingers scraping together with noisy _skritches_. "Because I'm _sort_ of getting that impression."

"I am in need of assistance," he turns stiffly, hair falling away to reveal a face tense with concern. "There is a small chance that I've accepted a job that requires killing."

It's a nudge and she's envisioning _all_ the killing she's witnessed being done by him, unbidden murders and his hands full of heart and viscera.

"And you want me to help you...kill?" _Is this a test of some sort?_ "Did Aveline put you up to this?"

He stands in one graceful move and takes three steps towards her, stopping short of _close_. She notices how carefully his eyes hold her own and it's clear he's making an effort to keep them there. "I...believe that it's a trap."

"Most assassinations depend on traps."

"For _me_, Hawke," his ebony brows press towards one another to form deep ridges above his nose. "I have no reason to suspect, yet I do."

"And better wrong than dead?" She sighs. "Can I at least get some sleep before I risk my life to help you?"

His reaction to this is somewhere between a wince and a smile.

"The sign outside your door _did_ indicate that these are your off hours," lips shift towards an amused smirk. "As you're not needed until midnight, I will allow it."

And then he's gone, slipped out the door before she can even remark on the show of humor or how easily she gives into her friends.

"Your other...the pirate just left through the back" Leandra is in the archway, her fingers twisting at her stomach. "You know, I'd hoped that once we were...is this what you want to do with your life, Wilhelmina?"

"I don't know," her response is quick, honest, and she's thinking over the past few days, of jealousy and lust and how much she hates blood and spider guts but helping the people she likes isn't terrible at all. "But it's something I _can_ do until I stumble over what it is that I want."

Leandra shows no signs of agreement or condemnation. Perhaps she recognizes the hand she's had in Wil's conundrum, of raising her on the run and with the burden of her family's safety heavy on her shoulders.

_Or perhaps she knows to force me into a role she was unwilling to fill would be, at this point, the most hypocritical thing. _

"Just be careful, darling," from her expression, it's not _danger_ that she sees as a danger. "And know that I will be here to help you should your priorities change."

_Or not._


	5. Better Than Nothing

Wil and Fenris arrive for an attempted assassination and end up keeping watch on a wooden crate seemingly abandoned on one of the far docks.

Fenris, as it turned out, was just being paranoid.

Although he hesitates to call it that, instead using words like _caution_ and _self-preservation_ to explain himself as they stroll back to their homes, their pockets heavy with coin and the pair of them unconcerned with what it was they'd been asked to guard that required such skill and earned such a reward.

"Para_noid_," Wil sing-songs, enjoying the way it rings off the walls of Lowtown. Hightown has its nooks where she can get a good echo going, but Lowtown is so close and crooked. She imagines the words zig-zagging along the alley ahead of them, rolling through small plazas and dying at odd angles away from them.

Hightown is all _square_ squares and sharp corners.

"Your mood is remarkably...," he pauses. When she glances over, she can see him squinting slightly, that smirk of his that she's always found _pleasant_ taking form. "_Up_. I take it your adventure with Isabela was...not unpleasant."

_Not _unpleasant_?_

"What a remarkably polite way to intimate that we fucked like bunnies," this echoes, too, and Wil would not be surprised if the pirate herself emerged from any one of the deep shadows that surround them, summoned by their words alone.

"Or perhaps you found the task agreeable," he's almost at a smile. "You strike me as the sort who needs such an outlet, Hawke." His face grows serious, but his eyes gleam with something close to mischief. "Take that as you will."

Wil's laughter earns them a reproachful shushing from an open window and then he offers a far quieter chuckles when her head ducks in embarrassment that marks the beginning of shared silence as they allow nothing more than the evening breath of Kirkwall and the sound of their boots and calloused feet scuffling along the limestone walkways to accompany them.

_I'd forgotten that Fenris could be companionable. _

"Isn't it amazing how well we get along when we're both quiet?" She questions the air in front of her, although she's keeping tabs on him from the edge of her vision.

"Only our opinions stand in the way of a beautiful friendship," he intones with that _voice_, the traces of mockery in every syllable oddly pleasant coming from _him_.

"Would you like to keep our opinions to ourselves over drinks at the Hanged Man?" She doesn't need to indicate that they're less than a block away and nearing the point where the path splits off and begins towards Hightown.

"Hmm," she sees his lips move in wordless silence before he answers. "I don't know if I'm in the mood for the _ambiance_ of the Hanged Man. But if you would like a drink before you return home, I _do_ have access to a wine cellar...," he trails off, clearly not wanting to just _ask_ her to his mansion at _this_ hour.

"I won't have to kill shades to earn a glass of wine, will I?"

Over the next few steps, he closes the gap between them in a very deliberate way and Wil recalls another thing about him that she'd forgotten-

"I think your presence is enough this morning," his shoulders push back as he turns to her and smiles, a slow and simple curving of his lips that somehow manages to turn her thoughts fuzzy despite the fact that, after handling Isabela. she should be much stronger. "Hawke."

* * *

><p>They've been harassing him for weeks, but this evening is the first time he's taken the threat posed seriously. He's spent most of his time in the undercity viewing the various thugs who prowl the sewers, the ones who organize themselves under a common banner and hunt in small packs, as vicious bullies but nothing that should concern <em>him<em>.

Then it began, on a night when he was escorting an escaped mage to the docks. The tell was a simple spirit spell used to stun a patrolman along the harbor and, when he returned to the sewer entrance, there were two boys wearing Coterie colors, teeth exposed in lewd, hopeful grins and palms outstretched for the bribe.

He'd supplied them with a few silver each before sweeping back towards the clinic, more concerned with the woman he's just placed on a merchant's vessel bound for Ferelden that he was for his own safety. He knew this game- they'd milk him for a while, follow him when he made his infrequent visits to the Lowtown bazaar or the Hanged Man or, if they were feeling brave, the Rose. He'd fling coin in their direction to get them off his back and, eventually, they'd wind up dead down by the docks, or facedown in a slow-moving river of shit or maybe even at the end of a noose, punished for their crimes the same way his volunteers would be punished for their part in enabling Anders' existence as an apostate.

He'd been right, too, up to a point. Until tonight, when he'd been lost in a missive meant for the Captain of the Guard-

_Aveline_ is difficult for him to think. More than any other name he hears it in _Wil's_ voice, spoken as it always is with that mock flirtatiousness that reminds him not only of her but also of the man he used to be and it's a strange mingling of sorrow and nostalgic warmth that he has no idea where to place amidst the desperation and meaningless white noise that has become his existence.

So the _Captain of the Guard_ is getting her own letter, her own plea in the hopes that she understands the implications of capturing apostates and sending them back to the Chantry and what happens to their families and loved ones. Some survive, battered by templar threats and condemnation. Others find themselves in the Gallows courtyard serving as examples to all those who might be inclined to think mages are worth the risk.

_She is all but killing those who would stand with us._

_The _few_ who would stand with us. We simply can _not_ lose more allies. _He slips into the Hanged Man. Despite the ever decreasing frequency of his visits, he has the path up to Varric's rooms memorized and this late, closer to dawn than midnight, he can wind his way through and remain safely distracted by this latest wall he's building up, stone by stone, in an attempt to keep one more person with influence from wandering down a road that leads to further oppression.

"Blondie," Varric's voice is what finally breaks him from his reverie and it's warm as it ever is, although cracked with an exhaustion Anders knows well, one that sleep can never truly dispel. "I can't say I was expecting you."

The dwarf is dressed, his familiar tunic free of wrinkles and his duster freshly brushed. Anders is unable to tell for certain whether the dwarf is at the beginning or the end of a very long day.

"Varric," he smiles as he takes a hesitant seat in his usual place at the table. Social calls are not his strength, but Varric excels in making these sorts of things effortless and Anders can already feel an easing within him. "I'm starting to doubt you actually ever use that bed of yours."

Varric laughs, all worn edges and true. "I suppose there will be time for me to sleep when the Merchants Guild is dead," a gloved finger runs itself along the worn cover of a ledger that dominates the table in front of him and it's clear where the bulk of his concerns current rest. "But at least I'm home. Do I want to know what _you're_ doing out at this hour?"

"Well," it's a beginning to an explanation that loses momentum in one syllable. He'd been too pre-occupied with his letter to _Aveline _to think of a suitable cover for the request he's about to make. While he doesn't want Varric to insinuate himself into Anders' difficulties with the Coterie, he also needs information that Varric is not always willing to give without a decent reason. This task might require verbal skills that Anders no longer possesses.

_Or you could just take a direct approach. It works for Hawke._

Or _that_. Anders winces. "There's a chance I angered someone who wants me-"

"Dead?" Varric asks, strikingly nonplussed.

"No," he frowns. "You couldn't guess _for my body_ first?"

"I only know one person with a protruding ribcage fetish," this receives no elaboration. "All right. Second guess- imprisoned?"

Anders is painfully aware of how badly he wants more elaboration on the ribcage fetishist. But not _now_.

"I don't remember asking you to guess," he raises his eyebrows, more amused that he should be. These are the sorts of games they used to play. _Before_. All of them bouncing off of one another with ease, jokes flying high and low, perfectly timed interruptions and interjections as important as what got said. It was Wil's sense of family, of sisterly and brotherly affection with a slight edge and a racy twist. Not as dark as Warden humor, but far from proper at times like these. After almost two years, Varric falls easily into his role even without her here to conduct with crooked grins and generous laughter. "I miss it, though."

It comes out softer than necessary, starkly honest in the space between them and of all the people to admit this to Varric is, at least, the one most likely to just...understand. Even if he didn't, really.

"You're not the only one, Blondie," the dwarf leans forward on his elbows. "Believe it or not, you're someone whose absence gets noticed."

A muscle jerks in Anders' jaw and he fights the need to be overly earnest, to ask exactly what got said and how. Because it's _important_. "By the time I got your note, it was too late. And I had...other obligations, " he realizes he's gripping the edge of the table between white-knuckled fingers. Drawing a shaky breath, he relinquishes his grasp, "Being here would have been better."

Understanding settles in Varric's eyes and he nods. "Well, my door is always open. Except when it isn't...and my friends are still allowed in," he snorts. "Unless my sash is hanging on the handle. Then you knock, at the very least."

"It's only polite," Anders agrees, relieved at how easily the dwarf waves off his moments.

_Easy_ is not a regular thing in his life.

But there's a reason for this late night visit, even beyond vague reassurance. "There's a man in Kirkwall who wants me obedient," his voice catches when he realizes how _that_ sounds and makes Varric's eyebrows waver in an expression of surprise. "His name is Araby Ever and-"

"Stop right there," Varric leans forward, his weight on his elbows and his fingers latticed in front of him. There's a calm veneer of _businesslike_ but Anders can sense an underlying layer that's slightly less polite.

"You know him." _Of _course_ he knows him_. Anders berates himself for not coming to Varric sooner.

Broad shoulders lift. "He's not what I would call knowable, but his name comes up," he falls back into his chair. "Usually accompanied by the unconscious widening of panic-stricken eyes. I never considered that he'd target you..."

"I've been working with him," Anders' eyes shift as guilt presses against his stomach. He'd been given very strict instructions to not speak of the Underground with anyone, but especially not his _old friends._ "I don't think he would _kill_ me, but apparently I'm more _willful_ than he'd like. He's enlisted some people he knows in the Coterie to keep an eye on me and..."

"Say no more, Blondie," Varric is already on his feet and searching a section of his bookshelves that hold his more utilitarian tomes. "Some well-placed gold and-"

"No," Anders joins the dwarf in standing. "You know I can't accept that."

_You accept _her_ charity easily enough._

A knot forms in his chest at the idea of rejecting the food that shows up on his step every morning. Before...before the Deep Roads, she'd always made it clear that it was appreciation. He took so little from her despite the aid given, and he'd accepted nothing from the expedition...

And if he allowed the knowledge that she thought of him _sometimes_, even if he was only represented in a hold in her budget or in a weekly visit to the grocer, to cheer him when he was thoroughly convinced that he'd alienated the one person in Kirkwall that made him feel like a-

"An attack, then?"

"No, just...if you happen to have any spies within the Coterie," he's careful to not assume too much, "they can interfere if there's signs of escalation. Or...something. I don't know, I didn't really think it through."

It's a bit of a theme with him these days, but Varric understands.

"I'll see what I can do, Blondie."

"Thank you," gratitude soaks his bones and he's almost at tears because this is one thing he's not screwed up yet. "I suppose it goes without saying that I don't Wil to find out."

Varric's examining his nails and the question catches him distracted.

"Wil who?" He's not joking and for a moment Anders finds it inexplicably painful. Then Varric's face registers recognition and something like a blush colors his cheeks. "I don't know...if she discovers that I knew and kept it to myself she might, well, _go_ _Hawke_ on both of us."

Sadness turns to anticipation with an unforeseen edge of arousal.

"Or she'd make herself a tent outside of your clinic and never leave," Varric offers a smirk as he continues. "She's got a lot of time on her hands these days, even if she is starting to get back into..._things_."

_Things_. Some part of Anders wants to ask what _that_ means, but most of him doesn't need to _know_, really.

What can it hurt? He hesitates, his mouth falling open just as Varric offers the world's tiniest headshake.

"It's just better this way, Blondie," he assures him.

_Oh._ He feels his brow tighten. "That bad, huh?"

"Potentially _worse_," a smile does nothing to soften the meaning and Anders leaves in a more profound state of distraction that he'd arrived in, Justice trying to get him to think about how the Captain of the Guard

_Aveline_

could help relieve the pressure placed on mages outside of the Gallows, while all Anders wants is to contemplate missing being missed and..._things_.

* * *

><p>His hand is working its way beneath her tunic, and he can't bring himself to watch its progress nor can he meet her gaze.<p>

_Not right now._

It had happened so fast, and he still doesn't know how. They'd been meandering up the steps to Hightown, discussing Kirkwall and the way it wore its history of oppression like a badge of honor.

_"Why not something more cheerful? Instead of the City of Chains...the City of Crazy People!"_

_"That would be both honest and preferable," his lips curl and he recalls the kick in the gut he'd felt the first time he'd seen the statues in the Gallows. "Anything would be an improvement over those slave statues, so...twisted and broken."_

_She's watching him, green eyes sympathetic but not pitying._

_"Is it still like this in the Imperium?" _

_He's almost composed an appropriate response when-_

"Be still, Hawke," he turns his hand, pressing the sharp talon of one gauntleted finger up before he tugs it down, her shirt tearing along the path he traces to reveal the gash above her right breast. It's the length of his palm, the blood coating her skin slick and crimson. " I..."

His breath is short, measured. This is not the first time he's confronted a wounded comrade. He can't remember the moment, the details. It might have been on a night like this, cool and humid with the breath of a spring storm and the sparkling eyes of a clear night. It might have been during the day, dusty hot under the Tevinter sun that would eventually bake him the color of a Rivaini sailor.

It might have been both.

He doesn't remember the details, but he _knows_.

He also knows that he's not very good at this, and it's more than dealing with an injury, it's dealing with _why_ she's injured..

_they don't see the mage until he's beside Fenris with a flash of brilliant blue light that forces the elf off of his feet, thrown against the corner of one of the stone columns that plague the Hightown squares. The impact relieves him of sense and air, of his sword, and he's useless without the former and, against a mage, all but helpless without the latter. _

_She screams his name, an attempt made to put herself between him and the mage that's thwarted by a second wave of magic that rolls through her. From Fenris' vantage point on the ground, she's a monument to agony, if only for a moment. It passes, and she's left standing but clearly weakened._

_She's left to fight on her own._

"Stupid sword staves," she lifts her head slightly to see for herself and Fenris winces with her, their eyes meeting over the wound. "Now _that_ is an unfair advantage. Such reeeach...," her voice fades and Fenris fades with it, a curious veil of exhaustion gripping deep within as vitality is drawn out.

"Fenris!" She smacks his shoulder, she _pushes_. Suddenly she's the stronger one. Her tattered shirt fluttering in the wind, she's eases him onto his back while her hands grope at one of the pouches he wears at his waist. He can only stare at the tense lines of her face and wonder if he should tell her that all he needs is a few minutes to rest and he'll be fine.

But the worried line between her eyes isn't the worst thing he's seen, and he gladly begins to drink the potion she offers. Glad until he tastes it. It's not the sweetly astringent bite of elfroot, but something thicker and his tongue wants to fight its passage down his throat but finally will wins and he's able to sit up again, unaided.

"I must have hit my head," he searches along his crown for a lump and comes away with nothing. Not even pain. "Or..."

Hawke has a _look_ about her and her gaze can't quite meet his own.

"Hawke," he frowns, realizing what she's not saying. "It didn't feel like...magic."

"It has something to do with dragons and blood," she falls back onto her bottom, eyes closed in resignation. "It's not happened since the Deep Rods. I suppose it was too much to hope that anything good had come from that little misadventure. Besides becoming fantastically wealthy. Of course."

_Dragons blood._ Fenris has no difficulty remembering the fight at the Bone Pit. He doesn't ask questions, recognizing the reluctance in her voice.

"You're still injured," he nods to the bloodstain that is now spreading down her breastband. "The mage could...heal you."

Speaking of _reluctance_.

He expects her to leap to her feet, to leave him behind and set off towards the sewers without him. He's not expecting to see her shoulders sink and her fingers twist into the ragged fabric of her torn shirt as she considers his suggestion, nor had he anticipated the unguarded emotions that play themselves out in the twisting of her lips, the tensing of her jaw and the glossy brightness of her eyes.

"Hawke," he offers and hopes she takes from it what she needs.

"I'm surprised you'd advocate for his services," the smile that comes with this is forced.

"Hmm," his feet pull themselves close, his knees practically touching his chest. "Even _I_ recognize that mages can serve a practical purpose. Healing is _his_," he pauses, weighing the next words out of his mouth before deciding just let them go. "And this is my fault. My opinions on such matters should not endanger your health."

"My health," she repeats quietly and stares at the ground beside her. "I'll be fine, Fenris," she catches the edge of her shirt and pulls it back to reveal the gash in her pectoral. Before it had been a wicked, gaping thing. Now it's little more than a bad scratch, although it continues to weep scarlet, the trail following the subtle curve of her bound breast and he's glad that he doesn't have to watch while another man's hands examine her. "Being a mutant has its advantages."

He laughs, short and bitter but...it doesn't match how he feels. And how he feels is...

"How long has it been, since you've seen the mage?" He stands and offers a hand to help her up.

She manages on her own.

"Since just after we returned to Kirkwall. A year," Hawke glances at the empty plaza around them and the emotion's still there, lingering in the way a muscle in her jaw flickers and the undeniable ache buried in that _we_.

_A year. _It helps him feel _less_.

No. _That's_ a lie he tells himself to keep from trying to place the burn that's settled at the back of his throat.

"I have bandages...and I believe I owe you a drink," moving carefully, he helps her fasten her torn gambeson, a difficult task with restricted use of her arm. "Even moreso now that you spared me a trip to Darktown."

"More than just a trip to _Darktown_," she looks up at him and smiles, sadness dimming it but incapable of stealing the gratitude at its core. "So we can pretend like I _didn't_ steal a little bit of your soul to heal myself?"

_She screams his name, an attempt made to put herself between him and the mage_

"_This_ time, Hawke."

* * *

><p>It's almost noon before Wil attempts the stroll from Fenris' mansion down to her own, alcohol and bone deep fatigue catching them unaware practically in mid-conversation and holding them under for hours.<p>

And, despite the innocent truth, she's certain that it appears absolutely scandalous. There's a mystique that's been built up around the white haired elf who, as far as public record is concerned, does not exist and _she_ remains a curiosity to the nobility who are so flummoxed by _what_ she is- a Fereldan refugee, a mouthy mercenary, and a scion of one of the city's oldest and most notable families.

That the two of them have been seen together at all has _allegedly_ excited imaginations; the fact of her leisurely departure in broad daylight will surely result in more than a minor ripple through _polite_ society. That she's ragged and carrying a sword will only widen the scope of their supposed depravity, and Wil's not looking forward to answering the questions raised once the rumors have found their way back to Leandra.

Because Wil arrives home to a Leandra who _already_ has questions, although she at least first ascertains that the damage done to her late husband's coat doesn't mean her daughter has suffered similarly. The relief that loosens the knot between her eyes when Wil shows her the bandage that has been neatly, and carefully, affixed to her shoulder, does much to make Wil feel appreciated even as her mother follows it up with a long and aching sigh that means_ we need to talk, and there's only so long you can put it off._

"Where's Sandal?" Wil ignores the sigh to plop down in one of the wingbacks in the library. "I asked him to clear out that room in the cellar for me...Gamlen mentioned something about a dollhouse?"

"A dollhouse?" Now Leandra's surprised. "I...yes. It was a nameday present from him."

"He said it was shortly before you were betrothed which...way to go age appropriate, Uncle Gamlen," Wil smirks at her boot, doing her best to ignore the small and exasperated noise that her mother makes.

"It had...special meaning," Leandra murmurs, distracted before her face brightens. "Is that what you plan to do with your day, Wilhelmina?"

Because adventures with pirates and elves and getting cut open just aren't fitting for who she's supposed to be.

Not a Fereldan refugee, or something like a mercenary. A _noblewoman_.

"If Sandal's got the junk moved out of the way, sure," she's far from committed to anything else today and, if it makes Leandra happy, then she might be spared whatever lecture is forthcoming. "It's something to do."

"I suppose it is," her mother's voice is flat. "I realize that you don't wish to marry, darling-"

_darling_ like a poke between her ribs

"but you could always get into politics, or perhaps volunteer at the Chantry. You don't need to be this person anymore, Wilhelmina." Now Leandra is on an edge of desperation, her eyes swimming in tears she'd withheld when they'd had this conversation yesterday. Wil supposes it's the excessive bloodstains and the way she's sprawled out in her chair like an arrogant commoner.

"I don't have the reputation for politics, Mother, and you know the chantry gives me hives," Wil keeps her exasperation mild and her smile charming. "Oooh, _I_ know. I could play to my strengths and volunteer at the Blooming Rose!"

Leandra sinks onto the ottoman, her posture resigned but fight remaining in her eyes.

"Believe it or not, Bethany's not the only child I wanted to protect by getting the estate back," lips tremble. "I know what you think you are, what you claim we made you, and I _know_ you can be better."

Wil whips her legs around and stands, unable to pretend any longer and unable to sit here and be given options as if she's in a position to change when she's just starting to get a grasp on herself in the first place.

"Define _better_," she challenges from the doorway.

Instead of an answer, Leandra gives her a frown before turning her attention to the fire that crackles on the hearth.

"You have two letters on the sitting room desk. Both delivered this morning."

Cryptic. Wil pulls the library door closed behind her and, after a moment's debate, picks up her mail.

The first note is in an elaborate envelope marked upon in simple script and she's surprised to see Saemus Dumar's signature at the bottom of a brief invitation to join him for dinner.

_...I have no confidants in this city, and of the few people I am allowed to speak with only you have shown yourself to care more for content than surface..._

She'll write him back, or look him up the next time she's in the Keep to see Aveline. Although, she and Aveline hadn't parted on excellent terms _so Saemus might have to wait a few weeks before getting his chance to vent._

The second note she reads once she's made it to the top of the stairs, barely noticing that Bodahn and Sandal are now in the sitting room beyond the balcony, their voices rising towards the vaulted ceiling.

"Sandal you can't keep every spider you meet."

"I like it."

"You _would_ like it, my boy."

_Wil-_

_I wish to express my [illegible] gratitude for all you have provided _me_ the clinic, directly and indirectly._

_Fondly,  
>Anders<em>

"Oh."

And it's a feeling far from sorrow that unfolds in her stomach, but it's not _undiluted_ relief, either.

The edges of the paper are worn from handling, the creases permanent from worried folding and unfolding. In one margin is another note, scribbled out but longer even than that which remains.

She'll never know what it says, but she'll spend most of the afternoon in the cellar, digging out a dollhouse in between holding paper to lamp light, concentration furrowing her brow as she attempts to decipher the indecipherable.

_It's probably nonsense, anyway, or Justice telling me how much I suck._

Still, nonsense is better than silence, better than assumed disappointment and regret. Better than what she's gotten from him thus far, which is _nothing_.

On top of the other things she's gained these past few days- anger and confidence and a new scar-to-be- it seems like quite a bit.

* * *

><p><strong>Note from SF:<strong> This chapter was difficult to write for some reason. I hope it's not too terrible.

Thank you again for reading and reviewing and being awesome! I appreciate it.


	6. Friends

"Cobwebs suit you, Hawke," Varric lounges against the doorframe while he examines the small cellar room beyond. Droplets of sweat have formed along his upper lip and Wil can't help but realize how _damp_ she is herself. "Although I don't know why you're going through so much trouble, unless you plan on using this as your secret hideout."

Wil peers at him through the haze of the very web he speaks of and smiles.

"Don't worry, Tethras. The Hanged Man will _always_ be my secret hideout."

"Heh," he steps in, situating himself gingerly on the edge of the single bed that's been placed in the room. "Too bad it's hardly a secret that you love spending your time there...not that _I_ have anything to do with spreading that sort of information."

"Of course not!" She plops down beside him, ignoring the dust that clouds up from the ancient wool blanket she's draped across the bed. The room, now that it's mostly cleared of the junk the slavers had left behind, isn't too shabby. Besides the moth-eaten cover. And the warped wood shelves that line the furthest wall. It's taken her almost three days of going through storage crates and piles of cloth and paper to get it to this point, and Varric is correct in assuming she has no purpose or need of a stuffy little space in the cellar, but it's been a nice distraction. "Anders came by. I mean, I didn't _see_ him. But he left a _note_."

And it's a testament to Varric's ability to deal with these whiplash-inducing changes in conversation that he doesn't so much as raise an eyebrow at this seemingly random bit of news.

"Good on Blondie," Varric snorts. "I knew he couldn't resist the idea of you being concerned on his behalf, especially since-"

He stops in mid-sentence because Wil is staring, eyes _ridiculously_ wide and probably more than a little panicked.

"So I guess it was a different sort of note," he forces a smile and a jovial shrug. "I'm just glad he left his hole."

"_Varric_," Wil says his name in a way that's less _tell me now_ and more _I will cut you_.

"Fine, fine," his expression is slightly _too_ put upon, and Wil realizes that she might have just played into his hands. "But you didn't hear this from me. Blame it on Edwina, or that weird guy who's always hanging outside of my rooms."

"Why would they-"

His eyes narrow.

"All right. Just tell me already!"

Leaning forward, as if there's any risk of being overheard down here, Varric speaks in exaggerated low tones.

"Blondie's having some problems with the Coterie. I've got eyes on the inside, but I don't think a few extra patrols in the undercity would hurt anything," he hesitates. "Except for Blondie's pride."

Wil makes a noise of agreement, although her mind is already forming a plan. Her shoulder, despite their best efforts, had started showing signs of infection yesterday. Although Leandra has been tending to it, it's still tender and, even worse, unpredictably so. Wil's avoided any activity more strenuous than cleaning on the off chance that a flare up would cause her to fail spectacularly mid-maneuver. Not so dangerous while moving boxes, but potentially fatal in the midst of a swordfight. Patrolling was certainly out of the question for the next few days, but she still had coin and-

"Wilhelmina!" Leandra's voice echoes down the stairs from the main house and interrupts Wil's thoughts, and just when she was getting to deal with something important.

"Fuck," Wil mutters, leaping up and past Varric to acknowledge her mother's summons. "I promised her I'd go to this _thing_ tonight.

"Oof," he sympathizes. "I used to have to go to _things_ when Mother was still alive and convinced I could restore our dwarven honor if I just married the right woman."

He snorts and then_ his_ eyes widen at all that _admitting_.

"Why, Varric Tethras," she smiles down at him and wishes she were the hugging type. "_You_ just opened up and _not_ through story."

"Maker's breath, Hawke," stumbling accompanies this exhalation, a mockery of how upended he really is. "What are you _doing_ to me?"

She moves ahead of him on the stairs and considers what he's done to _her_. Varric is the safety net, the one who champions her accomplishments even when they aren't true accomplishments at all and, above all else, the person who understands.

"Apparently, we're what normal people would call _best_ _friends_."

"Damn," his voice is huskier than normal. "Can we just go back to mutual admiration underscored by co-dependent tendencies?"

It strikes a chord in her that is far more melancholy than intended and she hesitates at the cellar door while her mind searches for a reason _why_ and comes back with this:

"Whatever works...as long as I can show up at the Hanged Man and know I never have to leave, we can be anything we want," she wavers. "Now. Do you think you can work some of your magic and get me out of this _thing_ I've gotten myself into?"

Laughter greets her plea, and his head shakes in mock regret.

"Unfortunately for you, I have a rule about mothers- don't lie to them," he reaches around her to open the door that will take them back into the estate. "So you better get used to hearing this: After _you_, milady."

* * *

><p>Wil looks pretty.<p>

She draws a deep breath and tugs at the scooped neckline of her dress, urging it to cover the miniscule amount of bandage left exposed. It's less about propriety and more about the fact that questions are already being asked about the injury and she doesn't want to lie, but she also doesn't want _everyone_ in Hightown to know that she's sometimes prowling around with her sword, being attacked by bandits and apostates.

Besides, Leandra would kill her. Even though she looks nicer than she has in ages. Possibly since...

The dress she's wearing, emerald silk with a darker green bodice, is in a style that Bethany would have loved. It had been selected and tailored with her in mind and left to hang in Wil's wardrobe as something she would probably never wear, but that would remind her of her sister, as if her sister had ever had the chance to share in this life of tailored silk dresses and fancypants gatherings in Hightown estates.

Tears bite at Wil's eyes, and she wonders why this is so fucking hard. She's not stupid, nor is she particularly shy. She's also the sort of person who has _had_ no compunction strolling up to strangers and offering her shoulders for their problems.

_Have sword, will slay even personal dragons. _

But these aren't people who need assistance. They don't have missing children, or lost pets, or a package they want hand-delivered to a crotchety old sailor down at the docks. _They_ need to be entertained, they need to be interested. They need to know that she's like them in ways that make them more comfortable in her presence, or that she's so exotic that they can cart her around and present her as if they'd dreamt her up on their own...

_"This one was born in Fereldan to an _apostate_ and a disgraced noblewoman._

_"Oooh! Look at all those freckles!"_

_"She's quite the swordsman, too...and I heard that she has a fetish for elves and abominations."_

Wil buries her face in her hands, silently cursing Leandra for creating an atmosphere between them that put Wil in some sort of behavioral deficit that she was fighting like mad to escape _and_ for not realizing her eldest child has holed herself up in the cloakroom because she didn't move up here for _this_. She moved up here to make her mother happy and doesn't that mean she should just _be happy_ with whatever Wil decides to do with her life, whether it involves marrying nobility or spending most of her nights drinking and gambling in Lowtown? Anything she wants to do as long as taxes are paid?

"I think it does," she tugs on her dress one last time and turns to march directly into a tiny woman laden with spring cloaks that might as well have sprung forth from the Fade. "Andraste's ass! Are you all right?"

The elven woman is clearly shaken but appears to have all her limbs in the right place. Her expression, though, is one of legitimate fear.

"Oh, my lady," her voice is squeaky and her only concern apologizing to Wil as if it was _her_ fault that Wil plowed her over. "I am so, so sorry. That I could be so clumsy and oh," two large teeth come out and bite at her lower lip, tears already brightening honey-colored eyes. "Please don't..."

The cloaks fall to the floor, a pile of fine velvet and silk, and the elf cringes back against the far wall of the closet, shoulders shaking with the ferocity of her sobs and her hands held defensively over her face in...

_She thinks I'm going to hit her_, Wil's throat tightens. She's been to the alienage enough times, visiting Merrill and Arianni, to know how many of the elves there consider work in Hightown as being every bit the high risk endeavor that a job in the foundries or on the docks would be.

"I'm not going to..." she's two steps closer before realizing that _looming_ over the girl is probably just as threatening as _threatening_ her would be. Stopping, arms held out in a gesture of _I want to hug you in a comforting way and _not_ hit you_, Wil offers her an apology, or close to one. "It was _my_ fault. I was distracted, clumsy and have you seen my feet? They have a tendency to tromp, especially when I'm wearing these silly Orlesian shoes."

She holds her foot up helpfully.

It kind of works. The _talking_ moreso than the foot, although the fact that Wil can barely balance with her leg extended earns a small chuckle as the girl uses the loose edge of her tunic sleeve to dry her eyes.

"Those _are_ impressively trompy feet," her tone is forced cheer, but the effort seems to eliminate most of her fear, especially when Wil flashes an amused smile in response.

"Hey," Wil kneels and begins gathering the fallen cloaks, the woman scurrying forward to assist even as Wil stands with the garments gathered in her arms. "I've got this under control."

"Are you sure, Messere?" Her pale brows draw in concern. She's worried that Wil is doing a maid's task, but Wil plays it off as ignorance.

"I have exactly one manservant and he's a dwarf," she carefully drapes the cloaks on a series of wooden hooks placed at eye level. "When it comes to long garments, it's just easier for me handle them myself."

When she turns, the elf is watching her with hopeful recognition.

"You are Lady Leandra's daughter, then," a smile pulls at the corner of her thin mouth. "She has spoken at great length of you and your sister on her visits with Lady Ivetta. There has even been some discussion of...well," her gaze finds the floor and from the pink in her cheeks it's clear that she's overstepped what she should _know_, let alone be sharing with an outside party.

"_Please_ don't tell me they've been scheming to marry me off to Ivetta's son," Wil leans back against the wall, cushioned by noble outerwear.

"You wouldn't like that?" Her eyes are serious. "Livingston's not a _bad_ man, Messere Hawke. He...he treats _me_ quite well."

From the flush of her cheeks and bosom and the way that small hands busy themselves with one another, Wil's certain that she can interpret _he treats me quite well_ in the worst possible way and she'd be absolutely correct.

"So he's _not_ the reason you were afraid of me?" Wil watches the woman closely, sickened by this turn in the conversation yet unwilling to ignore the implications of abuse. The elf's breath catches and her head shakes with immediate vehemence.

"No, messere. I'm...," her voice lowers to a grave whisper as she once again shares far more than she should. "I am to be offered to Lord Livingston's betrothed as her lady-in-waiting. My mother is Lady Ivetta's, and my grandmother served Lady Miri Alecks before her. To lose such standing would be...," the corner of her mouth draws back, "_bad_."

Silences stretches between them as Wil attempts to get the truthy center of this explanation. Admittedly, she knows little about elven servants. Sorrell's mother had worked in a merchant's household after his father's death, but he'd been hesitant to say much beyond that fact. Fenris' experience was limited due to his unique position in Danarius' entourage, and the other elves Wil has met throughout her life have all been merchants, craftsmen or petty criminals.

But this is pretty unambiguously wrong. To abuse your child with expectations, to make her not only idolize her betters but also fear them even while seeking their approval. It's the same sort of mindfuckery that happens in the Circles, this idea of submission to a status quo that discredits your very humanity_._

_And this isn't even _touching_ the weird horribleness of whatever's happening between her and Ivetta's son._

She's still considering what to say when they're interrupted by an attractive young man with auburn hair slicked back from his delicate features. He clearly doesn't realize the elf is not alone by the way he pulls her close, his fingers digging roughly into her backside in ownership.

"What are you still doing in here?" His voice is indolent despite the lines of frustration at the top of his nose, as if he has to keep such a _watch_ on this one. "I know for a fact that you're normally much..._quicker_ than this."

"Li-Liv," she extricates herself and tilts her head towards Wil, her chin trembling.

Wil would rather have just let the scene play out, her discomfort secondary to whatever punishment will be heaped upon the poor girl.

Or maybe not, since his expression does not change even in the face of being caught manhandling the servant who will be placed in the most awkward position should he ever take a bride. There's also a strange surge of _I know you_ as his gaze trips slowly down Wil's face to the bodice of her gown and back up.

"Miel, you're excused," he doesn't look at the elf as she falls away from him and backs out of the cloakroom, hurt, worry and jealousy all vying for attention on her plain, pretty face.

Wil remains with her back pressed against the wall, her arms crossing beneath her breasts in defiance. She's not going to cringe away from his assessment or keep _any_ of her opinions to herself.

"I _know_ you," he smiles, slowly, and brings one hand up to thoughtfully touch his chin. "A little over a year ago, in the Blooming Rose..."

He trails off and Wil's wondering who in Andraste's name he thinks she is when it comes back to her with uncomfortable clarity.

Trapped between tables and a man intent on buying her, regardless of whether or not she was for sale, let alone interested. Fenris had intervened on her behalf, a timely show of his abilities in intimidation, and an ensuing whirlwind of Jethann, Isabela and Sorrell had managed to rinse away any lingering sense of _unclean_ left by the strange man's assumption that a poor, Lowtown rat would jump at both his gold and his cock.

But _unclean_ has returned as she places his unnerving stare somewhere just above sizing up a market ham for a Feast Day dinner.

"You have quite the ego if you're willing to be rejected by me a second time," she shrugs him off with a mean smirk.

"If I recall correctly, _you_ didn't reject me...that knife-eared squatter told me off on your behalf."

"I find your memory of the evening..._creepy_," Wil ignores the fact that her stomach's response to his comment is far less flippant than she is herself.

He comes closer, a halting smile twisting his lips. "So you don't deny it...does that mean you've rethought my offer? Only now I suppose I'd have to give you fifteen gold...twenty? No doubt your taste has grown expensive since arriving in Hightown."

"No doubt," she deadpans. "Listen, I have nothing _against_ prostitution. As a matter of fact, one of my good friends is practically a connoisseur of sex for sale. I just don't want to have sex with you," she stands upright, her stance deceptively strong. "For money. Or for..._no_ money."

His eyes narrow and she takes it as a question.

"I don't know, there's just something I don't like about you. It might be the fact that you view women as property," she should stop right there, from the way his shoulders tense. But she doesn't, because she's _Wil_. "Which I've gathered from the fact that you seem to so enjoy paying for sex. Or taking it from cowering servant girls who-"

The slap he lays across her cheek to shut her up is not merely a slap. There is weight behind it, and raw anger. It whips her head to the side, causing a muscle in her neck to draw tight before snapping back with a white sting and it sends her staggering against the wall, her face impacting stone and drawing blood that flows copper bright between her teeth to fill her mouth.

For a second she clings to the wall, unsteady and more than a little confused by the faint spasms in her shoulder and the way the small room is spinning and _Mother is going to be so _pissed_ at me_. Then she remembers what else she can do besides get herself into these messes.

_You punched a rock wraith in the face, Hawke. Remember that?_ It's painful and emboldening and she turns to intercept his hand as it goes to catch her arm, shrieks of protest felt from the tips of her fingers to the back of her skull but she's stronger than him and pretty damn good in a fistfight.

Even though she hates it.

She winds his arm hard so he's forced to face away from her, his mouth opened wide in agony and rage as he automatically bends to her physical authority, allowing himself to be shoved forward against what she assumes is a wall but is actually an unlatched door.

They spill out into a foyer with stone walls and ornate benches that might look good in the Hawke estate. _I should ask who crafted them_ floats through her thoughts like madness, but only because there are people gathered here and there is nothing between them and the twisted, cursing form of their hostess' son and the bloodied, horrifying visage of the mad refugee girl who has him at her mercy.

_Balls. _

She lets go, shoving him away with a quick prayer that Leandra and Ivetta are-

"What in the Maker's name are you doing, Wilhelmina?" Her mother is on her, hands finding her upper arms as she attempts to guide her back into the cloakroom.

To hide her.

Wil refuses to be hidden. Instead she shrugs Leandra off and turns on Livingston, who has found a supporter in the elven girl who dutifully checks his arm for sprains or breaks and Wil can hardly keep from snatching the girl up, throwing her over her shoulder, and stealing her back to the Hawke estate.

But it would be a temporary reprieve, and one that she doesn't even realize she needs.

"I can't believe that...," it comes out with flecks of blood that mist the shoulder of Leandra's pale blue party dress and there are so many eyes on her and so many expressions, some of which are sympathetic but most of which are somewhere between shock and bemusement.

Livingston watches her, too, and she can tell by the subtle curve of his clenched jaw that he's challenging her willingness to admit that she sometimes hangs out in the Blooming Rose and travels with and even sleeps with elves that aren't her servants but her _friends_. He's challenging her to lay herself out in self-defense, and to claim that he would offer gold for her skinny ass, to see how far _that_ line of accusations would get her.

And there are even fewer there who would believe him capable of drawing first blood in a fight between them, not when _her_ fortune has been made on a foundation of dead bandits, mercenaries, Tal-Vashoth, templars and darkspawn. She's the one who has killed in the Chantry, for reasons she can't even recall at the moment. She's the one who fights and stabs and can eat a person's soul if her need is great enough.

She can't blame the ones who stare on reproachfully, nor can she really find fault with the fearful frown that's settled on the face of the elven girl who will be the one who bears the true brunt of what happened here tonight _and_ consider it deserved.

"I don't belong here," Wil announces it like an elder statesman and not the unmoored young woman she actually is. Her chin even goes up as she searches the foyer with a discerning eye, although pain and frustration have turned her vision blurry, until it falls on a shape she believes to be Lady Ivetta-ish in nature. "Your estate is lovely and I thank you for inviting me. _Us_. Please don't think less of Leandra-"

"Wilhel_min_a," her mother exhales, her hand going up to cover her eyes.

"I tried," Wil lies, because _trying_ would have involved less time spent in a cloakroom, but it's a nice parting line as she flees a foyer with lovely stone benches, sweeping through the Hightown plazas until she winds up in her own which has _a_ stone bench, which is currently occupied by Sandal, and Bello's chin.

"Hello," the boy intones, unsurprised to see her home so early and in such a state. "Puppy eat enchantment."

Bello's eyebrows raise in languid acknowledgement of what he's done although he appears otherwise nonplussed.

"_Maker's breath_," she forces out, her lungs aching from what she realizes must have been a full-blown sprint home. "Will it hurt him?"

Sandal studies the mabari intently before responding with a deliberate raising of his thick shoulders.

"Well...keep an eye on him for me," is all she can say before she's stumbling into the main washroom, her hands plunging into the basin of freshwater that waits there, cool and ready to wash away what evidence it can from her face and throat.

There's a looking glass that she refuses to acknowledge and an entire line of truths that get similarly ignored. Her brain wants to pull her from this place and go over the how and why and _what the fuck were you thinking, love? _of the evening's events and Wil just wants to not be covered in her own blood and thinking about anything more strenuous than...the room downstairs?

She's surprised it's not the Hanged Man, but even Varric might be unable to wrap his head around _this_ misadventure.

So to the room downstairs.

"It needs linens," this is addressed to the porcelain basin that is filled with blood pinkened water and she's startled by the surge of _now _this_ is a good idea_ that warms her words. "Some candles and maybe a figure or two for the shelves...to make it feel like a place anyone would want to stay."

_Whose place?_ is a question she's not asked and yet the answer has been obvious since Varric had first wondered what use she would have for a space so hidden, so private and secure.

* * *

><p>He dreams of tranquility. Of eyes that look and see, but blankly stare. Of lips that move and speak, but only those words necessary.<p>

A world without color, music, feeling...and he's at the center.

Alone.

There's a strange crag in Ferelden, a parched desert from which waterways have been redirected to settlements in more hospitable lands and when the sky hangs low with threat of rain, the red dirt turns bleak grey and the entire world feels similarly stripped. He's there now, kneeling as dust plumes and curls low in the atmosphere, suspended like smoke or clouds.

Like the world on fire and his veins filled with so much ice and meaningless noise that he can't even care.

"Did I do it?" His voice comes from somewhere else, his voice scrapes and bruises. "Is this...is _this_ what will happen? It's so..._blah_."

Anders turns slowly and he's standing behind himself, only the Anders he sees is not the Anders he knows himself to be.

This man speaks with hesitation, yet exudes confidence. Arrogance. This Anders sees justice as the distant edge of a sword that gleams in the dark, wielded by someone else's steady hands. Justice is not his day to day, his missed breakfast, his forgotten lunch, his dinner spent alone and scratching thoughts in the bare patches of an already abused scrap of parchment. Justice does not yawn within him, does not turn his memories against him, does not steal his autonomy to strike without compunction or grace.

Justice is _just_ an ideal. Justice is a rotting man back at the Keep like any of his other companions. If this Anders is thinking of any future, it's of a future with the woman who could have been queen. She's pretty and powerful and keeps him well fed.

But...

"Do you know?" He asks from his place on the ground. "Do you know what will happen?"

"Not this," Anders is vehement, his head shaking and the light catching the gold jewelry still secured to his ear. It is color, his voice is color, his blue robes, unmarred by the force of Vengeance's first battle with the templars, is color. He is humanity in this unrelenting nothingness- a shallow, arrogant, self-possessed bastard who somehow managed to trick a few wonderful people into caring about him...for a little while. "_Death_ before this."

He wants to ask _what if I don't have the choice?_ _What if it's a world where I have no say in even that? What if death is not punishment enough for my actions? What if there's nobody there who knows that death is better? _

_What if I'm alone?_

He awakes at that.

Alone, of course.

His body doesn't realize it, though. His body is flushed and yearning, waiting to take or be taken and this just _happens_ and some mornings he's tempted to run up to the nearest Lowtown alley and grab the first person who offers and some mornings he makes the water in his bath as cold as he can tolerate it and plunges in, waiting until that moment when the steady ache in his groin is indistinguishable from the steady ache _everywhere_.

Then there are the mornings he allows himself to capture a perfect dream moment that he should have abandoned to the Deep Roads. But he couldn't, because it was so right and it was so much what he wanted-

_What you want is freedom for mages. What you want is all mages to have the right to love whom they want, to let them have normal lives if they desire normal lives._

_Of course I want that, but_...Anders' hand stops its slow journey down his stomach, his fingers grazing just below his navel and he's drawn so tight that it's enough to send desire flitting bright across hot skin and it's easy to imagine it's someone else that teases him, someone else who is once again brushing and working in careful circles. The blanket moves, billowing slightly above him and whispering back into place and it's gentle, like the sweep of messy hair tumbling around a face bowed worshipfully close but not quite...

_...I miss your touch_, he'd whisper and her cheek would press against him, curved in a smile that he knows partially eclipses her eyes and she'd respond in silence, her hand speaking on her behalf as strong fingers run along his length, tracing a path of warmth that is more than simple arousal. It's _attention_...care. It's need deferred for purpose and _you are not alone._

And for a few minutes, he's able to cast the illusion of companionship, to believe the heat that radiates from his fingertips is from her lips, and the thin, slippery liquid that follows is lathed on with her quick tongue and the effort that shakes the cot is her shifting for the perfect position so she can free one hand and place it on his chest and held splayed flat until the steady rhythm of her mouth is enticing his hips to jerk and thrust and soon it's a fist clenched tight, knuckles digging against a vicious scar that few have seen and only she has ever touched, sadness and awe and concern playing across her features and maybe _that_ was the moment he knew he loved her, and knew he could _never_ love her, nor allow her to love him. Not when...his breath catches, his lips, which have been parted in the middle of a litany of silent encouragements meant for a phantom paramour, surround a single, broken moan as he spills onto his own fingers and must carefully and quickly move the blanket away to avoid messing it.

The illusion is shattered in that one gesture. Were he not alone, she'd be settling on him, a barrier between the damp cool air and a shelter from the storms within and without him.

"Hnng," he curses his release; despite the small amount of relief it brings there is always this precipitous crash back to reality. This is where another body would come in handy, to ease the transition from _delusion_ to _this is the sad and lonely bed you've made for yourself._

Moving slowly, he sits and swings his feet over the edge of his cot, ignoring the way it moans beneath his weight. After lighting the candle that keeps vigil by the side of his tub he slides into the already drawn bath, the tepid water bracing so soon out of bed.

From the color of the sky beyond the vents, it's close to dawn which means he's gotten four or five hours of sleep. It's substantial for him these days, and probably why he dreamt at all.

_Tranquility_. Even now as he washes himself from yet another morning's self-ministration, even as he begins another day of touching others to heal yet separated from them by his purpose, by who and what he is, he is grateful. Grateful that he has desires, although they must go largely ignored. Grateful that he's where he chooses to be, doing what he's chosen to do. Grateful that sometimes a patient's lips quirk in gratitude or a man sees his wife brought back from the edge of death and the relief breaks on his face and Anders is allowed a moment of pride and accomplishment...those moments are rare but they happen and _sometimes_ is better than _never_.

"Now to remember this past midmorning," he washes quickly, his skin is beginning to tuft like gooseflesh, and the vague plans for his day begin to take form. He has some time to pull together a list of needed supplies, to be purchased with gold that had been donated to him by an anonymous noble. Anders has lost track of the ones who came to him with their embarrassing predicaments and assorted, less humorous, secrets. They all started to run together after a while, and moreso than the refugees or his neighbors in the undercity.

_They have influence, they could be doing so much more to support you._

_Except that the idea is that nobody knows they've been to a healer, and I can just see myself campaigning in Hightown_, Anders rises from the tub and automatically wraps a threadbare blanket around himself for warmth, rubbing the fabric against his wet limbs to restart his circulation as much as dry them. _Perhaps on the Chantry steps...who's going to object to _that_?_

Justice blends back into his thoughts, which have turned to what he needs- what can be easily purchased _for_ him and what might need to be gathered by his own hands.

"A trip up the coast might be nice this time of year," he pulls on his pauldrons despite knowing he'll want them off by noon. His aid, Muriel, calls it his uniform and he supposes it's close enough to one. She's been kind enough to mend his jacket for him, and to sew up the lining that had been torn loose by a hurlock, but he'll probably need to use some donation money to flesh out his wardrobe before he's in a position where the clothes just disintegrate off of his body. "Depending on the company, it could be amu-"

_BANGBANGBANG_

His head snaps towards the doorway between the backroom and the clinic.

_Coterie._

_Or Araby,_ his fingers flex and he can feel the crackle of electricity over his skin as his visitor knocks again, only neither as loudly nor as insistently. _Odd._

He leaves his staff behind in case it's merely a patient, which is far more likely than his initial assumption of _danger_.

_bang...bang?_

Or...

_BANG. BANG. BANG._

"For the love of Andraste," he snaps over the creak of the lock being disengaged. "Have some sodding patience," the door swings open, "_please_. Oh. Wil."

"Do you have a few minutes?" Hope is clear in her tired green eyes that aren't quite able to meet his own. "I did something excessive and I thought you'd might like to see it."

"Ha," it erupts out of him, a single syllable that somehow escapes while a thousand that are far more meaningful remain trapped.

This is _I saw you, like, yesterday_ and not _so...how about that year that's gone by since we last spoke?_

It's...hopeful. His eyes sting and there's a buoyancy at the center of his chest and _hope_. _This _can_ be done. _

He gestures to his robes. "Because I am _clearly_ into excess?"

"You _do_ wear a lot of layers," she shakes her head quickly, forcing a fallen strand of hair away from her nose. "Some might say...an _excessive_ number of layers?"

She smiles, that dementedly toothy grin of hers and he can see her lower lip is swollen, the inner edge blood black from a recent injury and, pulling his eyes up he traces the edge of a bruise along her cheek bone.

His hand wants to take it back, whatever happened. His hand aches with the restraint of not healing, of not touching, of not remapping the contours of her face that are slightly different and even if he's being hopeful, he might not get another chance to re-familiarize himself-

_That was the agreement._

"I can't argue with such overwhelming logic," as he'd done already this morning, he's going to ignore better judgment and _go with it_.

"Good," she waits for him to pull the door closed behind him before turning away. "It saves me the trouble of carrying you up myself."

"Up?" His eyebrows raise and he realizes that she's heading towards the newly refurbished ladder that leads to her cellar. "We're going...to your estate?"

"Kind of," she leans forward and glances upwards. "It's open, so you can go first."

"Why would...?" The dress she wears jumps out at him with more significance. "_Wil_."

She shrugs and looks away, her cheeks a damning shade of rose beneath her freckles. "You can't _judge_ me! Besides, I bet you went without more often than not when you were in the Circle."

He laughs again, and it's _easy_.

_I've missed your touch_ is what he wants to tell her, because it's more than just physical contact. Instead, he begins up to the cellar, wishing he were that arrogant Circle mage if only for a few minutes because, were he still that arrogant Circle mage, a few minutes would be all the time he needed and consequences be damned.

* * *

><p>It's a room.<p>

It's a...nice room. _Hot_. In a cellar. But...nice.

It also explains the cobwebs caught in her hair, which he'd not noticed until they were halfway up to the estate. And the thin layer of dust on her party dress.

"Is this how you hurt your lip?" It's hard to say if she's pleased he noticed or hurt that the first thing he says when presented with a _room_ has nothing to do with the room, really.

"No," her tongue darts out to test the knot that's formed and her expression turns sheepish. "I was at a party with Mother."

As if that's all the explanation needed.

"Was this party at the Hanged Man?"

For a second her jaw tenses, but then she laughs it off. "You know me...I take a bit of the Hanged Man with me wherever I go."

"I think we _all_ do," he won't press further. "It sort of...gets in your hair, doesn't it? And I thought _Darktown_ would be the worst smell I had to contend with."

"Hm," she murmurs in agreement before turning back to the room, her hand going up to twist in the back of her hair, the cut of it rougher than it had been before. "So...excessive?"

He forces himself to tear his eyes off of her and focus on the ostensible reason why he's here.

"Am I supposed to live here?" He takes a step in and looks around. It's slightly larger than the back room of the clinic and a cellar is a step up from a sewer. Arguably. "In your cellar?"

"No!" Her mouth twists because it _does_ seem a bit weird. "_No_. Varric and I were joking about using it as a hideout, and I remembered that we knew someone who could actually use one...," she trails off and her shoulders sag with resignation. "I needed something to do," this is a _confession_ and in those five words is an entire shifting of mood. "And, just to catch you up on things, I possess a pretty narrow skill set."

Her hands go out in front of her, palms held close and facing one another.

Anders isn't certain he knows _what_ to do. He knows what he'd _like_ to do, and it would be easy to slip his arms around her and hold on, to do what he should have done a year ago because she was his friend and she needed someone to cling to in the absence of her sister. But he couldn't be that for her. He _can't_ be that for her.

"I like the shelves," his fingers run along the smoothly polished surface and he forces himself to ignore the way her expression flickers between appreciation and frustration.

"I installed them last night...this morning...last night? This morning."

"Yourself?"

Her hands pull apart, just a fraction of an inch, and it's beautifully subtle. "I helped Father build a play castle for Beth and Carver's nameday the first year we lived in Lothering. I learned some stuff about carpentry that he kept trying to apply to my other training, but it never stuck."

There's so much there, buried in this snippet of her life that he'd known nothing about and the way she tells it, the anguished pride that flashes in her eyes when she speaks of her family and the way her voice wavers as if she's uncertain she should even _be_ speaking to him of family, knowing that he has none.

"They were lucky," he can give her that. _Permission_.

"_We_ were lucky," she hugs herself for warmth that is plentiful where they are and turns to leave. "I'm sorry I dragged you up here, Anders."

"I'm not," he follows, closer than necessary and his knuckles brush against the back of her arm and..._stay_ there.

She stops and even as her head turns away from him, the hand she has tucked close to his own moves and for a moment their fingers are entwined and it's _attention_...care. It's need deferred for purpose and _you're not alone._

_You're not alone _is something she's evidently needed, too, and when she pulls away a few seconds later it's to wipe away tears that had fallen unseen by him.

"Wil...," he keeps his hand where it's at and wishes he could do more. "Let me heal you."

Her head inclines towards him and when their eyes meet he's taken aback by the resolution he sees there when only moments before she'd been so _vulnerable_.

"I'd rather keep them," she touches her chest where the edge of a bandage peeks from beneath the neckline of her dress. "You know I don't mind a few scars. I hear there are some women who find them quite attractive."

"Isabela's gossip, no doubt." He readdresses the bandage. "Another rough night out with your mother?"

The joke's appreciated. "Not this time. Fenris and I were jumped in Hightown the other morning when an... bandit just came out of nowhere," she fumbles for a moment, clearly hiding _something_, but manages to recover by pantomiming a dagger through her shoulder. "I got stabbed."

_Speaking of getting stabbed_..._Fenris and I_ rolls off her tongue so easily and that probably explains where she was the other morning when he'd stopped by to see her and...

_An agreement was made._

_It wasn't an agreement, I just couldn't take advantage of her._ He nods to let her know he's still listening but for a moment it's just blood rushing in his ears and his stomach lurching between footfalls when she suddenly stops them.

"We're here," she kicks at the door that leads down to the undercity. "Can I at least give you a key? According to Aveline, there's been a lot of..._activity_ around the Gallows recently, and Meredith isn't happy. I mean, even beyond her usual levels of _isn't happy_."

And, _oh_, the things he wishes he could tell her. About the Gallows and Meredith, and even Araby. But it's dangerous. Wil's only a few steps away from the Knight-Commander and Anders _trusts_ her but it's...dangerous. For her most of all.

_It's dangerous_ is his excuse when he declines her offer and he's not certain she believes him because, well, it's not exactly the first time he's used it but she just nods and palms the cellar key and tells him to be careful because...

The reason she wants him to be careful is the reason he wants her to forget him, finally, and the reason he wants to slip his hands into her hair and pull her mouth against his own and make certain she never can.

It's confusing, being with her. And a bit painful. If he's being honest.

Yet...she made a room for him, a place for him to hide, and she understands why he can't accept it. And why he can't accept _her_ and even Varric would have given up by now in the face of those duel rejections.

But not Wil. She tucks her hands under her elbows and studies him with tired eyes that shine in the dim cellar light.

"I want to go back, Anders. To a point when...," she can't put it into words without pushing them into a place they are both trying to avoid. "I miss being called by a _name _by someone who isn't my mother."

He can't admit all the things _he's_ missed, and what he's resorted to doing in order to contend with it. It's more than just her, he knows, but hers is the face of everything he'd have been able to possess were he born in a different world, one that allowed mages to be people with magic and not pre-demons.

And she cares. And she touches him like he's a man.

And when the time comes...

His stomach clenches as he thinks of the desert and the _empty_ and he has his purpose and_ choice is good and being able to feel is good but not being alone and not feeling alone, even if I'm sleeping alone..._

"Well, _I'm_ a wizard and _you're_..." he gestures to her, hoping that she sees the crooked happy smirk and not the tears that are beginning to fill his eyes.

"I'm what?" Her head tilts slightly and he can tell by her wince that she's probably got a pulled muscle somewhere. "Prone to getting into fights wherever I go?"

"_I_ was going to say freakishly strong."

"I _did_ punch a rock wraith in the face," she looks down at her feet; a lightning quick flicker of agony in her eyes proves she's not completely come to terms with losing Bethany. "_And_ I walked away."

"Only because I was right behind you, healing like mad," he slides the door aside and takes to the ladder. His hands are itching again and the first step in_ going back_ is knowing when to walk away.

"Funny. That's not how _Varric_ tells it."

"I guess we'll have to set the story straight then," just imagining having dinner with the two of them is oddly euphoric. "Won't we, Wil?"

Her smile threatens to go, her teeth digging into her lower lip to keep it from falling out or turning into something inappropriately ecstatic.

"_Yes_," she squats down, her knees held tightly together and she rests her hand on his shoulder, guiding him down the first few steps. "Anything to make it work."

* * *

><p><strong>Note from SF:<strong> Late night updates, woo!


	7. Choices

"You're _looming_, Hawke," Merrill doesn't glance up from the board in front of her, her chin propped on one curled hand. "You know I can't concentrate when you loom."

"And your time's almost up, Daisy," Varric taps the nib of his quill against the hourglass, the ensuing *tinktinktink* a hammer against the front of Wil's skull.

He chuckles at the way she closes her eyes like it's an effort. He'd warned her that her week long tactic of avoiding hangovers by carefully maintaining a low but constant level of inebriation was going to backfire, and he's taking no small amount of glee in her suffering, never mind the silver she owes him.

"Give Merrill as much time as she needs," Wil leans against the doorframe and stares down towards the main floor of the Hanged Man. Her vision is gritty and it feels as if the normally dim tavern lighting has been replaced with the sun. "We're not wagering anything."

The elf makes a frustrated noise.

"No, we need to play by the rules." It's followed by the sound of fingers pummeling wood as Merrill struggles to come up with a word before she loses her turn to Varric, who is patiently re-tabulating their scores.

He's too polite to point out that it would take an intervention by Andraste herself for Merrill or Wil to have even a _slight_ chance at winning.

"Hawke?"

"Hmmm?" Wil manages to stumble her attention back to the elf even while keeping the steps in her periphery.

"Does _kennel_ have one _n_, or two?" Her nose scrunches. "Or is it one _l_? I can never remember and I always want to spell it with two _everything_. Like Merrill. Only...for dogs."

"Two ns, one l...is that your turn?" Finally realizing that she can't force someone to appear simply by thinking hard enough, as if she hadn't been trying _that_ trick since Father died, Wil returns physically and mentally to their round of Wordsmith. She's barely in her seat when Merrill carefully lays out three wooden tiles next to a _g_ and spells... "Frog."

"Yes," her hands clasp as she studies the board for a few seconds before closing her turn with an emphatic nod. "_Frog_."

Wil lifts her eyes, hoping to exchange a knowing glance with Varric, but he's occupied himself with scratching her score in and humming throatily, which means that he's already got a play in mind and it's going to make his lead over them completely insurmountable.

"I thought the entire point of this game was so Merrill and I could find out what it feels like to win something for once," Wil grouses, her arms crossing over her stomach, and then wonders if one of the reasons why she's so anxious for Anders to just show up already isn't because he's a walking, talking hangover cure and she could certainly use one, if only to get through the evening with her friendships intact.

Merrill's already a bit sad and frowny, anyway. Varric's tried his usual tactics, but instead of answers delivered in her usual daft and brilliantly scattered way, she'd only murmured something about a damaged book and turned her attention to a particularly detailed carving along the table's edge.

"I don't need to win anything," Merrill fidgets with the tattered fall of her scarf and offers Varric a quick little grin that does nothing to reduce the distance in her eyes. "I just like playing a game I understand. Plus, it's harder to cheat at Wordsmith."

"I bet Isabela could make it happen," Wil cracks and settles back into her chair. "Tiles hidden in her cleavage..."

"Her cleavage if you're _lucky_," Anders comes in with such suddenness, like a storm blown inland from the sea, and drops into the seat next to Wil with such _weight_ that she's almost afraid to ask him who he's seen that's put him in such a dramatically foul mood.

But she does ask, because it's him and Maker forbid she ever not be curious. Also, it's normal. The words _Are you all right?_ are _normal_.

_Your entire manic thought process? Totally _not_ normal. _

"Anders!" Merrill perks, her face opening at his presence. Despite knowing that Anders was supposed to join them that evening, she's very much surprised at his arrival. And pleasantly so. "Hawke has been worried."

There's no misinterpreting the momentary flicker of _incredibly flattered_ that dances in his dark eyes and is quickly _too quickly_ reclaimed by a fierce light of indignation that turns his voice rough and renders him incapable of _politesse_.

"They arrested Nicola," his hand smashes against the tabletop for emphasis and Wil's deterred from pressing on who Nicola might be by the way their Wordsmith tiles shake on the game board. "Her daughter escaped the Gallows almost two years ago and the Knight-Commander got a tip the other day that she's been keeping a hovel near the Alienage and..._arrested_. She'll be hanged for certain _and_ they'll make it public..."

"...because of all of the recent escapes," Wil leans forward, her weight heavy on her elbows.

"Lest anyone else get the idea they can even _think_ nicely about mages and get away with it," his fingers splay across the table top, beautiful instruments of selfless healing that are shaking with the intensity of his bitter rage. "Death for being compassionate...death for loving your own child. I just can't...," he turns to Wil and it's as if the past year never happened and the two of them have grown only closer since their return from the Deep Roads. His concern is near violent and the heat it stirs between them volatile. "This is what they would have done to you, what they might _yet_ if they discover the company you keep."

Wil blinks, the coarse and unpleasant spinning of her head a distant worry in the face of all of _him_. She's spent the past week in a state of inebriated floatation, drifting _above_ the wonderings of _what to do next_. Now that Hightown has failed her and Anders is no longer just a memory both cherished and difficult, she can perhaps move on to, or stumble into, a new sort of existence. Leandra is sharing only silence, the house has ceased to offer her projects that she possesses the skills, or patience, to attempt, and her finances have stabilized themselves. Bodahn drew up a budget and seeing a _figure_ has instilled in her a restlessness she can't quite define.

But that restlessness is a distant second to the _Anders_ restlessness. Perhaps it's his brief touch and consuming gaze, full of desperate yearning and so much pained restraint, that has pushed her across the line.

Or maybe it was spending an entire week drunk and doing little more than reading porn and sleeping.

Whatever the reason, she's got a mind to do _something_, and sometimes that something involves her hand and a well-worn copy of _Forever Knight_, and sometimes that something involves another person and, on nights like this one, that something manages to be less base and more...humane.

Like reassuring Anders that the templars are well-aware of the company she keeps, and of his existence in the undercity. That, despite the Knight-Captain's shuddering resignation when he discovered that Anders had returned to Kirkwall, they actually keep their polite distance from his clinic.

Which would require her to admit to the patrols she's maintained this past year, and to the fact that she's known since well before the Deep Roads that Cullen, at least, is well aware of the apostate in the sewers and _that_ could go over very, very, very badly and she had neither the heart nor the head for badly this evening, so she offers him a slightly dizzy grin and pushes at his shoulder.

"Good thing the Knight-Captain and I are like this," her fingers cross with a flourish. "We exchange presents on Satinalia and everything. Granted, I haven't much use for a chastity belt, but the thought was quite...," she trails off as Anders frowns, his glare uncertain. "_Kidding_."

"I know," he states flatly and _this is the problem I have with you, Wil Hawke. The _kidding_._ "It's _serious_."

"And _I'm_ wealthy," she reminds him and wishes that it came out the way she meant it. Not in a _jealous?_ way or a _luxuriate in the richness of my presence, undercity scum _way_._ It's, "I mean...nothing gets a priest to drop her knickers or a templar to turn his head faster than a little well-placed coin. Or was that a little well-placed flattery?"

"Or a well-placed kiss," Varric adds, jovial despite the wary way he referees the tension in the air. Wil's doing what she used to, before, but it's new again and showing signs of strain, of her still unsettled heart and lack of practice. Anders is caught in a place of genuine pain, of fear for his fellow mages and his friends and she's treading heavily on the _irreverent_ side of the affection/irreverence continuum.

"Perhaps," she smirks. "Whatever, the point is that morality is almost always for sale...it's why I wanted to go on that expedition in the first place and, Beth aside," it comes out and sounds like something she's able to say on a regular basis. "Beth aside, I might as well use my status to protect all of us whenever I can. Granted, of course, it's deserved. Sometimes I have my doubts about _Merrill_."

The elf blushes, _sarcasm_ something she's actually learned to _get_ every now and again and her presence at the Hanged Man, with dinner and games and Varric hiding their scores to save them shame, is all the reassurance she needs that Wil doesn't actually doubt her worthiness.

Anders' expression turns from frustrated to glower and for a moment Wil's scared she's lost him to her flailing attempts at lightening his mood but then his hand is on her thigh, high and protective and desire crashes through her as fingertips press possessively into her flesh and his mouth pushes against her hair so that he can whisper these words in five puffs of warm air:

"Stay out of this, Wil."

Then he joins a man she'd not noticed but who is standing just beyond the doorway of Varric's rooms, a man who fills the hall with broad shoulders, an arrogantly lifted chin and curious eyes that hold her own, curious eyes that search and clearly wonder what she might have to offer anyone, but especially someone like _Anders_.

And then they're both gone and it's almost as if Anders hadn't shown up at all that evening. Only the warmth of his hand and his breath remain, fading on her skin but maintaining their intensity at the core of her.

"It was nice to see Anders, again," Merrill cradles her chin and looks to Varric. "It's cute how she worries over him, isn't it?"

Varric can't give _any_ opinion at the moment; he's too busy _devising_, his eyes alight with a plan to keep Wil from stumbling out and after Blondie because, despite what his departing words actually _were_, Varric is well aware that all _she_ heard was: "Protect me, Mina. _Please_."

"So, Hawke. A bird's told me you're in the mood for a game that you can win," he pulls his spectacles off and leans back in his chair. "And clearly a _distraction_ wouldn't hurt."

She raises one eyebrow. _I'm listening._

"Then do I have an opportunity for _you_."

* * *

><p>The early evening throng in the bazaar is of no concern to Araby, his size and confidence alone enough to part the crowd before him, while Anders follows in outwardly meek silence, keeping to the larger man's wake.<p>

_He cannot be trusted..._

Hands curl tight, rough and bit down fingernails digging into his palms, and the muscles in his forearms twitching under faint electrical current.

It's not _all_ magic, but he's holding that memory away from _this_.

What's most frustrating is the lack of autonomy Anders has at the moment. All he can do is follow Araby's dark head as it hovers over most of the crowds around them and hope that he's not being followed, and hope that there are no fissures or debris in the road to trip him up or separate them because from the set of Araby's shoulders and the speed with which he drives them forward, stopping to pick up fallen mages is not a priority of his.

_He wants you specifically._

_Perhaps_, Anders relaxes his hands, willing warmth but not light to flood his tension stiffened fingers. If Araby does turn on him, he wants to be as prepared as he possibly _can_ be, although fighting anywhere outside of his clinic is high on the list of inadvisable endeavors, especially without Wil's coin to distract any witnesses or Varric's quick storytelling to weave a protective veil around him.

So he remains on guard until they have swept through the undercity to find themselves alone in Anders' clinic, the doors drawn closed and Araby regarding him with cold eyes.

"What did you tell your _friend_ as we left?" His voice is measured, each syllable snapped off at the close.

Breath catching, Anders cannot quell the sudden fire of panic in his stomach.

"I told her to stay out of this," keeping his tone even is a struggle. "She'll listen."

This earns a mocking laugh and Araby even goes as far as to clap his hands in delight.

"Somebody is blinded by...whatever it is you think she offers," his cheeks suck in for a moment. "Andraste knows I can't see the appeal, but perhaps I'm too concerned with her connections in Hightown. An association with the Captain of the Guard hasn't exactly aided you, now has it, Anders?"

_Bastard._ Anders had hoped for his evening to be a pleasant one spent eating bowls of hot stew and listening to Varric spin his stories while Wil added sarcastic interjections and funny little asides and damned if he's going to let this man further ruin his night.

"Just tell me what you want, Ever," Anders unhooks his pauldrons, his skin itchy with a faint sheen of sweat earned from their scurry through Lowtown and the sewers. "Or haven't I been a _good_ little boy?"

For a second, Araby responds with a flash of white teeth sharp against his ebony shaded jaw. There's menace in that smile, and a faint whiff of lasciviousness that prickles unpleasantly along Anders' cheeks.

"Better than I expected," he demurs, leaning back against the latched door. "Which is why I'm here this evening. Actually, that's not true. I'm here because you're a _healer_."

_Fuck._

"Is...someone hurt?" Anders is uncertain if he can force himself to care if it's Araby himself who needs attention.

The man pushes away from the wall and closes the space between himself and Anders with three large steps, a fierceness in his gaze that turns the air around him indistinct.

"I have a daughter in the Gallows," he pauses for a moment to let that bit of information sink in. "And here _you_ thought I did this all for the glory."

Anders somehow manages to keep himself from asking what his daughter thought about his part in getting innocent mages made tranquil.

"_And?_"

"And she will be arriving here close to midnight. Not alone, but I am uncertain who will be in her support," that this is out of his control is obvious, and it tells Anders much about young Lady Ever. "What matters is this- you do what she asks of you. _Anything_ she asks of you."

"_Anything?_" Anders loathes the sound of _that_, even more than he loathes being told what to do. In his Circle days, he'd heard stories about the lengths that some escaped mages would go to avoid recognition. Beyond merely growing a beard or coloring their hair, they would brand themselves as property or opt for other means of permanent disfigurement. Such desperation is on the far edge of sanity, but it is a madness he understands all too well. That doesn't mean he'll participate, however. Not without some reassurance. "I _heal_...I don't maim."

This earns a bark of hard laughter and a sneer. "Your mind is a horrible place, mage, to find itself at such conclusions...if you weren't so skilled..."

"Nobody is forcing you to seek my aid," Anders snarls it out, his patience obliterated in the face of such contempt. "My skill is reserved for those in need, and I will not have it exploited by you or any other."

Air seems to leave the room as Araby contemplates this assertion, his eyes narrowing in increments until they are mere slits that allow the barest glint of grey beyond dark lashes and what Anders is noticing are purpled lids. In this moment, Anders sees a multitude of lines, a worry of crow's-feet and furrows that will remain no matter the mood

"You will do as Miriam asks and, in return, I will not interfere with your participation in the underground," his teeth grind together, the sounds raking unpleasantly up Anders' spine. "Nor will I request your further aid in personal affairs."

_What is it he expects that he's so willing to relinquish control?_

Anders blinks dumbly, his head humming with countless possibilities and this could be selling his soul, but it could also be his chance to do exactly what he'd thought he'd be doing after Araby had first approached him. Freeing mages, fighting back against the templars on their own grounds, being hope for those without.

_But at what cost?_

"I will do what I can to ensure your daughter's safety," Anders keeps his voice level. "And if I fail to do _anything_ she asks of me..." he shrugs and waits for an incisive comment about his sudden confidence, and maybe even a physical threat. Araby merely nods, perhaps understanding that this is the best he can hope for from a willful Anders.

"I will kill you," Araby murmurs mildly, although it seems to settle the deal. His eyes rove over the clinic, reassessing the cleanliness of the facilities and visible supplies. Now that he has his agreement, his mind is elsewhere and Anders doesn't need the clarity of anger to notice all the ways that concern and fear have surfaced. "I suppose this will have to suffice."

And then he turns to leave.

"So not even a hint? If I'm going to do this, I might as well be prepared," he tilts his head. "_That_ can only be good for _Miriam_."

Araby hesitates at the door, his chin lowered as he glances back over his shoulder.

"She's..._expecting_," the word is carefully presented. "And you're going to do your part to ensure that the child remains as free from the Chantry as _she_ should have been."

* * *

><p>The moon hangs low and yellow over Kirkwall, illuminating the white docks in bright but uncertain light and leaving pools of impenetrable darkness perfect for obscuring sneaky rogues and their far less stealthy warrior friends.<p>

Wil's crouched, her sword propped on a crate in front of her, Varric somewhere on her left with Bianca at the ready. Their focus is on two boys, the eldest no more than sixteen and the other at least two years his junior, and the pile of unmarked goods that they guard with daggers nervously drawn.

"So Athenril's gotten no better at hiring since the last time I saw her," Wil keeps it at a whisper. "Unless those kids are just a distraction and she's got some actual muscle tucked around here, waiting for trouble."

His response is a derisive snort, not that she expected more. Varric's never been particularly adept at pretending to find Wil's former associates anything but beneath her.

"People thought the same thing about you, Hawke," he leans forward and cranes his neck towards the alley behind them. Company is expected and he's getting tired of waiting. "_I_ knew better, but to most people you were just another skinny refugee. Sadly disposable."

Although it shouldn't, nostalgia washes over her and she can clearly remember nights spent near this very dock, alone or with Sorrell while Bethany hid under cover. It hadn't been fun, and there were many nights spent fretting over possible trips to the brig, but it had been a simple job and a far simpler life.

But it was also a life woefully devoid of storytelling dwarves and abominations, of pirates and weirdly reclusive elves. And she'd lived with Gamlen, the recollection of which is enough to make her shake out a little, like a dog come in from the rain.

"Shhhh," Varric cautions her with a smirk. "We don't want to scare them off, do we?"

"Maybe we do," she looks the kids over again, an idea forming. "I get them to scram or let me take watch and then we wait for your _friends_ to show up. They start bossing me around, you shoot at their feet a few times, and then we...go back to the Hanged Man and wake Merrill up?"

It's too dark to read Varric's expression, but he allows the tiniest sigh and shakes his head at _friends_. The men he's hoping to see are former associates of Bartrand's who had conveniently quit Kirkwall before the abandoned members of the expedition had returned from the Deep Roads. Their homecoming a few weeks ago had gone largely ignored by the younger Tethras. Well, _allegedly_. Wil somehow doubts that interfering with petty criminal activities has ever been Varric's usual go-to when in need of a distraction, and yet here they are.

"Fine," he relents. "Saves me having to be careful about where I shoot."

"_Hey!_" Wil knocks him solidly against the shoulder as she stands. "If I end up with a bolt in my ass..."

"No worries, kiddo," his chuckle follows her from out of cover. "I'm here to improve _your_ night, not Blondie's."

She ignores him, instead focusing on sheathing her sword between confident strides down the dock. Besides the claymore, she can't imagine that she's cutting a terribly imposing figure, dressed as she is for a night of Wordsmith and dinner and _not_ getting into Lowtown skirmishes. Still, these are young men and they are practically obligated to posture, as if she is a threat.

As if they could possibly present a challenge.

They pull up ratty hoods, pointing at each other and at her with their sad little iron daggers, their language bravado but their accent _we_ _probably shouldn't be out alone at this hour_.

She stops herself well out of slashing range and places one hand on her hip, assuming the most casual posture and attempting to avoid any lungey business. _Or maybe they have an apostate hiding in the shadows like I used to. Watch out for falling fireballs. _

"So I take it Athenril told you I was going to be shorter," she pauses as they exchange confused glances. "And possibly a man?"

"Beardy," one boy mumbles, uncertainty showing in the wavering of his main hand.

"She would. _Fuck_. You turn a woman down _once_ and next thing you know it's slander slander slander," Wil kicks at the dock in frustration and then grabs her breasts, pushing them up the best she can. "I mean, do I _look_ like a man"

She can almost hear Isabela giggling to herself at _that_. Fortunately, it works well enough on the boys whose defenses drop completely and the older one even pulls back his hood to ask:

"Athenril wanted to...with _you_?"

"Well..._again_," Wil shrugs and takes a few steps forward and they _let_ her. "I guess that's probably why she took it so very hard. I suppose it did reflect...poorly on my opinion of her abilities," it comes with a smirk. _Athenril_ _might actually hunt me down and stab me for this_. "But you'll have to talk to her if you want details...I've got to get this stuff to my distributors."

The boys exchange uneasy glances, as if they suddenly remember why they're here and what they're _supposed_ to be doing, which is _not_ fantasizing about their boss.

_Nothing a handful of sovereigns can't handle._ She whips around to fix the unhooded boy with a smile.

"Last time I checked, Athenril was paying slave wages...if anything at all," she tosses him a few coins, offering his partner a couple more. Then, remembering with cold clarity what it was like to be where they are, "I'd buy yourselves some nicer equipment, if this is going to be a _thing_ that you do regularly. I think Lirene in Lowtown is expecting a shipment soon...you might check it out in a few days and see if you can't find yourself a bargain."

"Oh."

They stare at their palms and the coins that gleam there, disbelief clear on their sunburned faces. Wil thinks to ask from where in Ferelden they hail, but a quick whistle interrupts her thoughts before any more can be said.

_Oh._

Danger sharpens the air as armed men, a dozen at the least, begin to pour forth from an alleyway across from where she'd left Varric.

_Fuck._

"Serah Hawke!" The leader is faceless, helmed and dressed in fine armor. While she does not recognize his voice as it echoes off the stone around them, it's easy enough to assume that he's one of Bartrand's old cronies and even easier to guess that much of what he's heard about _her_ isn't flattering in the _least_.

_Too bad Isabela isn't around tonight...her distraction probably would have involved nothing more dangerous that making fools of ourselves at the Rose._

The sound of swords being drawn, the soft _schkift_ of metal scraping against leather scabbards runs like a cold hand up her back.

_Fuck_.

But at least this is a game she can usually win.

* * *

><p>Miriam Ever delivers a girl named, in a breathless sob as Anders carefully rests the cleaned and swaddled child against her sweat-soaked breast, Luisa.<p>

"It was my mother's name," she inhales the scent of the infant's head, her nose practically buried in a thatch of damp black curls that Anders had done his best to clear of blood and...stuff.

Delivering babies has never been his favorite task and even if this one had gone smoothly, her labor shortened by a potion she'd taken before leaving the Gallows, this occasion is being further marred by one additional _thing_- the child's father.

He's been looming in the corner since he'd made her comfortable on one of the cots. He'd been content to stand aside and let Anders and two women whom he's never met before handle the actual birth and Anders knows that the man is waiting for Anders to slip, waiting for Anders to abuse his magic or to hurt Miriam.

_Why would a mage be with a templar?_ With Luisa well and out of his hands, he can withdraw from the situation. The women, both clearly experienced in midwifery, take over so he can shrug out of his blood-splattered jacket and begin gathering soiled linens for the wash. But even busying himself is not enough, especially when the man steps forward to place his hand on Miriam's shoulder, his gauntleted fingers offering a tender squeeze of _I'm here for you_ and it's wrong _all wrong. _There's no way she could love him, and yet the smile that spreads across her face at his touch is breathtaking and the three of them, mother mage and captor father and the poor babe that should never be, are the very portrait happiness.

_Why does _he_ get this? Why?_

Anders is not sure who in his head is demanding this. Certainly _he_ has no desire to...certainly he realizes that no matter _what_ happens next...

Certainly this _cannot_ end well.

And soon it becomes clear that both Miriam and her templar realize this, as he pulls away, head bowed. Anders expects for the man to leave, to return to the Gallows.

_Please return to the Gallows_, his plea is silent, his head aching from the restraint of not tearing into the man, of not forcing him to confront the ugly truth behind the pretty young woman and the small babe that the mid-wives have gotten to suckle at her breast.

_This is not love..._she could not consent to him the way a non-mage could...not with the threat of unchecked abuse or tranquility if she denied his advances. And even if she'd pursued him, it could not be real affection she felt, for how could anyone care for a man who participates in the subjugation of their own kind? At the very least she is broken and, as dangerous as her life outside of the circle is going to be, she's better off free from the templars' control.

"Ser mage?" One of the mid-wives point towards a small wooden basin, covered now but containing Miriam's afterbirth. He has some idea that things are done with such remnants, things he doesn't wish to consider. "She will be in need of this...and a few of the bloodied rags, too."

The request pulls his attention away from the templar.

"Pardon? Is there..." _don't say some kind of ritual_. "Why would anyone need _those_?"

"Because we have to have something to show the Knight-Commander," she states it so plainly, and her expression is so..._surprised_ and Anders' stomach turns as a he sees not only her face, but Miriam's behind her...

_Bereft_ is a word to describe it. Unfathomably so, soul torn and turned inside out. Despite her anguish, there's a calm about her and after she hands the baby to one of the midwives, Anders can see her gathering strength as if strength is something that can be absorbed from the air around them.

_Perhaps if you're the right person, it _can_ be._

"Healer," her voice is steady, if not a bit bruised from labor and exhaustion. "I would like for you to clear me for my return."

He'd known it was coming, from the moment she'd passed off her child, who had been named Luisa for her mother.

"But you're free," he whispers, his heart tightening even as Justice stretches within him, yearning to say more words than Anders, who could not imagine rejecting this gift, not only of freedom but of _family. _When he speaks again, his voice is louder and almost _strangled_ with passion. "Do you know how many mages have _died_ for what you have? How many of us risked our lives and our sanity to get out? And you would return, stroll _right back in _and gladly resume the shackles of life as a Circle mage. How brainwashed can you be? How..."

"Quiet _you_," the midwife who has been gathering soiled linens turns on him, bloodsoaked finger pointing at his chest, hovering close.

"This is my decision to make," Miriam carefully gathers the skirts of her sleeping gown and shifts her legs over the edge of the cot, wincing as she does so but warding off her caregivers with an upheld hand. "Father also told me that you would honor my wishes...or have I been mislead?"

"No. You were not _mislead_," Anders' response is bitter, his conscience battling itself. From the way she watches, grey eyes wary, he could convince not to go back, but the fact that she would need convincing...

_If they discover what she's done, they will make her tranquil._

"If they find out...you _will_ be made Tranquil, if not imprisoned," Anders steps around the midwives and crouches to level Miriam's gaze. "They held _me_ in solitary for an entire year, and all I did when I escaped was waste my money on whores. I was starved, denied water and kept in darkness and the Knight-Commander who sentenced me is considered a compassionate man...I have no doubt that Meredith will-"

"I _know_," she asserts, inching forward so she can speak confidentially. _This_ close he can see the beginnings of the same lines that mark her father's face, although she is far too young for such. "But what if I tried to make it work out here and they _found me_? What will they do with Luisa? To my father and Tobias? What if they find out about their...associates?" Eyes dart towards the templar in the doorway and _of course_. _No doubt he is leveraging this deception against her._ "And I'm not alone, ser mage."

"You'd be better off alone," he snaps and there is only indignation when she withdraws, suppressed anger drawing her brows low although she manages to hold her tongue. "But if pretending to love a man who would not hesitate to run you, or anyone like you, through with his sword is what you want, then..."

She stands, unsteadily, and he does not offer aid. Aid is not needed, apparently. If she feels well enough to make her way to the Gallows...

_You are being petty, Anders._ He goes to his storage shelves, hands busying themselves with gathering a small cache of poultices and herbs that will ease her post-partum pain. Behind him he hears hushed good-byes and promises from the midwives to keep a close watch on Luisa even after she's in Araby's care. He hears a low murmur and the creak of leather as the templar bids his daughter farewell and Anders wonders how the hypocrite can sleep at night knowing what he's done, and what he's put her through...

"You should go," Anders dumps the poultices into a canvas bag, carelessly dropping it onto Miriam's recently vacated cot. "If..." _you change your mind_ "anything happens on the return, I will be here."

And he allows them leave and continues to think while he does his best to erase the evidence of what had transpired in his clinic that night.

"How can I _set_ all mages free if I fail to convince one to _remain_ free?" He braces himself against Justice's response, the spirit usually downright loquacious when confronted with such doubt.

But instead of reassurance, or strident purpose, there is only the buzz and hum of chaotic thoughts, of cacophony and disappointment and perhaps _perhaps_ the faintest whisper of _now we can do so much more._

* * *

><p>Wil might be dead.<p>

Wil might wish that she were dead.

_Ok. I wish that I were dead because-_

"_Hawke_."

From Wil's vantage point from flat on her back on the dock, Aveline might be twenty feet tall. And her eyes might be on fire, or maybe Wil's on fire _were there mages? I could have swore I saw something flamey and I think I smell..._

"Are you on _fire_, Aveline?" She smiles and feels sticky warmth spill from the corner of her mouth, tracing a trail along her cheek towards her hair.

"Am. I. On. _Fire?_" Incredulity sharpens every word and _yes_. She is. She _must_ be because faces do not get that _scarlet_ under normal circumstances and maybe _looking_ makes it worse. Wil dutifully tilts her head to the side, until her eyes fall on

_Oh. A weeping gut wound. Awesome. _

She gags.

"To the Void with you, Hawke." It's a condemnation partnered with strong hands that find Wil's wrists to tug her into a seated position, and even though it hurts she's not going to complain lest Aveline give up and decide to add another body to the carnage that surrounds them.

And it is truly a mess. From where she sits, Wil can see at least ten bodies in various stages of totally fucked up and she even recalls putting a few of them in that condition herself. Further away are the two boys, both standing on their own and speaking with Sorrell while Varric is busy with Bianca.

_I can't believe he's still here. _I_ would have ran._

"So...nice night for bloodbath?" She lifts her hands from where they've been keeping her balanced and flashes a pair of crimson palms. "_Literally_."

"_Hawke_," Aveline snarls again and this time when she pulls Wil onto her feet she's not _pretending_ to be gentle or concerned, even when her friend staggers back a few steps, slipping in a pool of blood and struggling to stand on a leg that feels as if it might be partially shattered. "_Stop it._"

Wil freezes. "Like this?"

It hurts.

"Bloody...this!" Aveline kicks at the nearest body, the toe of her boot making a distinctly squishy sound and it's only then that Wil realizes how _official_ her friend is this evening. Instead of her normal plate armor, Aveline's in full ceremonial garb and her ginger locks are falling free of a bun that had probably started the night as a tidy knot.

"Did I interrupt something here?" Wil's confused. From what Varric had told her, this was just a typical Lowtown diversion. A bit of a shipment gets "misplaced" during unloading, Athenril's thugs keep it safe and then a distributor picks it up and Gamlen's your uncle, but don't expect much on namedates or Satinalia. Historically speaking, Aveline has been nothing but perfectly fine with Wil clearing the dark streets of Kirkwall of its more stabhappy wanderers.

"In a many ways, yes," Aveline's hand raises to press against her forehead, a frustrated gesture that Wil has seen a time or two before but there's something different now, as if Aveline is feeling more than just _Hawke, you _such_ are a headache._ "Do you have any idea _who_ you just wantonly massacred?"

"_Wantonly massacred?_" Her head itches, and Wil scratches at it before realizing how _that's_ so much smartassery. "Was I _frolicking_ or something? I seem to recall that _they_ attacked _me_. I was just here to-"

"To what?" Green eyes gleam hard with curiosity. "To cause trouble? To wile away another night because you've got nothing better to do? To prove to yourself how very different you are from the other nobles, who, Maker forbid, don't spend their nights getting drunk in a pit in the middle of Lowtown?"

"We can hear you, you know!" Varric ventures an interruption that earns a chorus of:

"Not helping, Tethras!" backed by "I'll get to you later, _dwarf_."

"Come on, Aveline," it's a gamble of a plea uttered with as much charm as Wilhelmina Hawke can summon, and sometimes she can summon quite a bit. "It wasn't so long ago that you would have been right here beside me! Remember that? When we would fight together and not just march in lockstep with our noses in the air?"

Aveline shakes her head, brow crumpling in frustration, "I've left you alone for what...three weeks? And ever since it's been reports that you've been seen causing trouble in Free Kirkwall and leaving bodies behind in Hightown and getting into fistfights-"

"Not a fistfight!" One hand goes up, one finger stopping Aveline from saying more. "I was trying to _avoid_ a fight!"

"You were at a _soiree_. There _shouldn't_ _have been a fight to avoid_, Hawke," arms open wide as if to say _and therein is everything that's wrong with you_. "But there was and I don't think I need to ask why."

"He was an ass," Wil sneers. "And you are, too."

"I'm an ass. _Fine_. I'm also an ass who could slap a pair of irons on your wrists and throw you in the brig for a few weeks, but for some reason I _can't_," Aveline's hands fall against her thighs in what would be a sign of surrender if they weren't balled into intimidating fists. "You had no idea what was happening here tonight, or who these men were outside of their association with Bartrand Tethras. The fact remains that you shouldn't get yourself involved _just because it's a thing to do_. If I thought for a second that you were here to help, I might welcome the assistance," her gaze softens for a moment. "You're good in a fight, and I trust you. But you're not a guardsman, and you don't need the money _or_ the infamy."

"So you're saying that I should stick to Hightown unless you need me for back-up?" Wil points to the boys with Sorrell, who she can now see are actually in irons. "And what about them? Wouldn't they have been killed had Varric and I not been here to step in?"

"And you were here to save them?"

"Like _you_ were."

"I was here to catch a criminal who might have lead us to other criminals, including _Bartrand_, but Varric's spies only told him half of the story, so...," she gestures to the corpses, none of whom are in any condition to lead anyone anywhere.

"You would have gotten here too late!"

"Or maybe they wouldn't have drawn swords on children as quickly as they would a professional thorn," Aveline jabs at the side of her cuirass for emphasis. "People know who you are now, Hawke. Everything you do is going to matter, for better and for worse, and you can't just play at life until something sticks because _this_," her hands frame Wil herself. "This is _not_ the person you wanted to become."

"Fuck off," Wil mutters, hot and lightheaded and still not entirely certain how _this_ is so different from anything she'd done, or been, before the expedition.

"Just...get out of my sight before I lock you up for your own good. And take _Varric_ with you," Aveline's tone is hard, almost disgusted, but there's a desperate amount of concern in the way her thin brows are pulled together. "I'd recommend seeing your healer on the way. And if the Maker has a sense of irony, _he'll_ be able to talk you back to sanity."

* * *

><p>He'd forgotten that his clinic doors were left open after Miriam's departure, so it's a surprise, and a confoundingly pleasant one, when he turns away from his washbasin to see Wil sitting on a cot near the door, knees pressed primly together and the entirety of her covered in dried blood.<p>

"Andraste's ass, Wil," he practically vaults over the beds between them to get at her, bringing a few freshly washed towels and handful of poultices with him. While they are needful things for healing, it also prevents his hands from immediately seizing her and..._seizing her_. "I shouldn't ask, but what _happened_ to you?"

Her gaze fixes on him as he begins to wipe at her face, searching along her hairline for signs of fresh blood, her eyes glittering in pained mirth.

"What can I say? Merrill _really_ hates losing at Wordsmith."

He laughs, despite himself. Despite how much it hurts and he's missed her-

when he thinks this his fingers slip and curl into her hair and his face dips closer before he _remembers_

-but this is hard for him to see. Every day he tends to the sick and the injured, the near death and the _how aren't you dead yet?_ Every _day_ there is blood on his hands and someone who might not make it, and it's never fair but it's also never somebody that he...

_You don't need her._

And yet even with the blood and the cautiously diverted eyes (despite cheeks that pinken and hips that shift) somewhere else inside him is _yes_. It's a single candle lit and flickering in a large and drafty room, a single flame that would struggle to illuminate a manuscript without risking destruction to book and reader, but in utter darkness? A single flame is almost unendurably beautiful. _Alluring_.

_Distracting. I have seen the moths that catch fire from their obsession._

_It's not the moths that I worry over..._he runs his hands along the back of her arms, his focus on the spell that will mend small injuries and the search for larger contusions, sprains or breaks. There's a gash just above her left wrist and he carefully cleans it, applying astringent and a fresh poultice with his fingertips to stave off infection.

"What would you be if you weren't a healer?" She speaks in a rush, as if he'd asked her not to.

He considers for a moment. "A healer, or a mage?" His eyes lift from his task to meet her own. "There's a difference, you know."

She does. "A mage. You had time to have dreams before the Circle squashed them like ants...surely you remember _some_ of them."

Were it anyone else, he might attempt something bitter, something patently untrue and offputting. But this is Hawke and... "I wanted to be a sailor."

"A sailor?" Surprise colors her voice, followed by a sharp intake of air as he moves from her arm to her legs and her left one is a _mess_.

"Sure! Travel the world, work under the sky. Freedom _everywhere_ and no commitment on dry land. Just nameless wenches in every port," he begins to undo her boot. "Not that I had any idea what a wench was, much less why a nameless wench was preferable to any other. I did have _some_ concept of romance, though."

"With nameless wenches?"

"There was a set of twins in our village, about six years older than me. Greta and Heinrich...both just perfect," he closes his eyes for a moment, picturing them at the market and he's momentarily joined with that covetous young man by the lull of desire. "In my head, all sailors looked like Heinrich and all wenches were Gretas. I mean..._that_ would be living."

"Did you ever think to make your way as a pirate when you escaped?" She dutifully tugs up her trousers so he can have better access to her lower leg, which is bruised and bears no fewer than three egg-sized knots along the shin bone. "I think those would explain why walking seemed like such a terrible idea."

"I _would_ say that I can't believe you made it down here, but...," he takes a damp rag from the pile near her hip and freezes it with a quick ice spell before pressing it against the largest of the knots. "And I considered piracy once or twice. But by the time I made it to a port I'd already learned that most sailors were gnarled sorts and missing limbs were compulsory to the lifestyle. Could you picture me with a peg leg...or a wooden finger?"

She giggles, a sound that is surprisingly similar to Bethany's own girlish glee and it's surprising how easy it is to forget his horrible night and how he'd let a mage return to the Gallows without much of a fight at all...and the ensuing hopelessness.

"I think you make a better healer...low chance of losing a body part and ample opportunity to get handsy with whomever you want," it's a calculated tease, no doubt inspired by the way he's handling her calf.

"Since I can't very well respond to _that_," he tries to sound chastising, but it's difficult with the beginnings of a smile. "Let me ask _you_ a question..."

"O...kay," she leans forward, anticipating.

"Would you have let Bethany turn herself into the Circle...if that's what she really wanted?"

"What." Not a question. "_Seriously?_"

"If you don't want to think about it...," he floods her leg with his most potent healing spell, light flaring up from her skin and illuminating the space between them. With it goes his strength and he sags forward, meaning to use the cot for support but getting steadied by her good knee.

"I would have fought her, I would have shouted, pouted and given her the moons if she asked. But," she leans back. "Yes."

"Why?" He stops what he's doing. He'd assumed that she'd insist there was no force in Thedas that could force her to allow such a thing.

"Because refusing her that choice would be wrong," she frowns and Anders sees another echo of regret chase itself across her face. "Besides, I think she would have been fine."

He'd not expected that admission.

"The Circle is a misery, Wil."

"Look at us, Anders," she gives him the wryest of smiles and his heart splits. "_Life_ is a misery sometimes, and always unpredictable...especially for an apostate. Some people find comfort in certainty, even if the cost is personal freedom."

"But they shouldn't _have_ to choose between being the hunted free or the safely imprisoned," he straightens his posture, indignation giving him strength he thought long since depleted. "Too many mages believe that they do, and they just...give up," his eyes search her face, wildly seeking a glimmer of understanding, an _I know_. "Their safety is an illusion and that illusion is a _trap_."

"An old trap," she touches his cheek, and not in passing. Her palm is almost defiant against his skin. "Which is why the world needs someone like you."

He turns his face into her hand, the warmth of her touch spreading down his throat and into his chest when normally this question would be asked with the bite of frigid self-contempt. "An abomination?"

She falls away as he reminds her without even meaning to of what it is that stands between them.

"Someone who's willing to poke at the rusty spots in search of a weakness, even if that means losing a finger," Wil forces a smile. "_Or_ a leg."

_Or a heart._

"Is there any way I could convince you to poke _for_ me?" He rises to her attempts at humor even as he tries not to think about the compliment paid, how much it hurts and how much he needs to hear it every day. "Although sometimes _poking_ will seem a lot like moving heavy crates and foraging for reagents."

She surprises him by shrugging, her grin turning genuine. "Why not? Maker knows I have enough free time _and_ a serious lack of self-preservation. Besides, it might keep me out of trouble. For a while."

"But _just_ a while," he laughs. "Otherwise, people might stop talking."

A second passes when her expression turns almost anguished, but it's only a moment and then she's chuckling again.

"And Varric would never forgive us for _that_."

* * *

><p><strong>Note from SF:<strong> Ah, this chapter. Overly ambitious and delayed by my continued inability to merge the state of _being inspired_ with the state of _has access to time and a computer._

Also, RL has been kicking my ass a bit recently. I apologize for anyone who reviewed and didn't get a response. I really do appreciate your feedback so much!


	8. Satinalia

Isabela is cold.

Her voice carries on the brisk coastal breeze, arriving to Wil over the sandy flats in front of the main entrance to the Bone Pit cavern.

"Neither of you told me it would be this windy," Isabela's complaining to Fenris who has wrapped his arms across his chest for warmth but remains otherwise silent. "Come over here and look, Hawke. I could cut _diamonds_."

Wil shakes her entire body _no_ before returning to her task of gathering elfroot.

"Not gathering, _treating_," she mimics the scholarly tone Anders had used the evening before as he taught her the proper technique for what was, essentially, rolling up leaves and sticking them into vials filled with some concoction of his own devising. But it had been important which meant demonstrations and a careful dance of hands and feet and ensuring that their eyes rarely met.

It had taken them the better part of a year to perfect, the entire world _close_ when _close_ is not a thing allowed.

"Tell me again why the mage can't pick his own weeds?" Fenris' approach had been covered by the wind and the steady roar of water rushing into the lower caverns below the mines, a sound that echoes along stone passages and does nothing to make this place feel any less _cursed_. "Or is gathering herbs too oppressive?"

Fighting the urge to point out that Anders _works_ and has other, admittedly unknown, commitments, Wil ignores the contempt that hardens his voice and caps another vial, slipping it into the fur-lined bag Anders sent up with them.

Isabela's on hand to pull it back out.

"What is this, anyway?" She holds it aloft, one fingernail tapping idly against the glass as muted sunlight catches the opaque amber liquid. "It reminds me of- my first navigator would get these places on his lips that would ooze when he used his mouth to-"

"_Maker_, please stop talking," Wil's glad to see Fenris cringe, too.

"What? I wasn't going _there_," it's _almost_ offended as she falls to the ground beside Wil, her leather clad legs stretched in front of her.

"No need," Fenris' nose is raised in residual disgust. "We're already there."

"And that's _just_ as bad," Wil adds, plucking the vial from Isabela's fingers and adding it to the cache. "Maybe you should help deliver them to the Chantry; take the opportunity to confess your sins."

Fenris chuckles. "And, lo, the Kirkwall Chantry was forced to close its doors as every priest endured the airing of Isabela of Rivain."

"And, lo, the Kirkwall Chantry opened its doors as the priests fled, having realized all the _fun_ they were missing," Isabela joins in with a laugh, then turns it into Wil. "I'll go, but only if you confess, too."

"A _month_," he amends. "Two if Hawke has to list every kill."

"Ha!" Wil can almost picture the looks of abject horror as she catalogued the countless thugs, mercenaries, mages, templars and Tal'Vashoth that had found themselves at the end of her blade. It would be a dark endeavor that she'd attempt to lighten with irreverence. "Faceless bandit 43, templar five, carta thug 29...he had the _greenest_ eyes."

"Indeed," purrs Isabela. "Hawke, can I have your coat? It's freezing up here."

"We noticed," sighing, Wil shrugs out of her gambeson and winces as the other woman pulls it on, tugging at the edges to encourage it to close over her breasts. "This is the red dress all over again."

"Hmmm," Fenris deliberates. "Red dress?"

"I _had_ a red dress," she explains with exaggerated care. "Now Isabela _has_ a red dress."

"And I look good in it, too," it comes with a head fling and a wide smile aimed at her companions. The task of closing the jacket has been abandoned. "Maybe I'll put it on before we go to the Chantry."

_I can see _that_ going over beautifully._ Wil packs up the last vial and buttons the satchel. Inside are fifty doses of cough serum requested through Lady Elegant by Grand Cleric Elthina herself. It's an attempt to stay ahead of the cold season in Kirkwall, where freezing rain and uncertain temperatures causes this part of the Free Marches to feel more like the Kocari Wilds, if only for a month.

Fenris' eyes are hooded as he watches her gather the remnants of her work. "So we're not venturing in?"

They both turn their attention to the cavern mouth, the yawning blackness flanked on either side by oil lamps that sway in the wind and offer scant amount of illumination.

"Fuck no," a shiver accompanies this.

"We had so much _fun_ last time."

"I almost choked to death on dragon's blood and now I can eat people's souls. The _best_."

"Don't forget that I carried you," his chin goes up. "On my back."

Isabela, who has been watching their exchange with purposeful disinterest perks up.

"You carried her?" She stands and mischief twists her mouth. "Oh, _do_ tell."

_Sigh. _"There's nothing to tell." Never has a man sounded more put upon than Fenris.

"Fine, then I'll just have to use my imagination," her arm threads through Wil's and she leads them down the path towards the coast, strands of black hair thrashing against her cold-reddened cheeks. "You _were_ both naked, right?"

He sighs and Wil shakes her head in flat denial, the bag lifted to hang from her shoulder and her body drawing closer to Isabela's for warmth. The air around them whips and whistles and the three fall silent, all thinking, perhaps, of naked piggyback rides.

"Is it a sin to make up your confessions?" Isabela wonders aloud a few minutes after they've found themselves back on the main road up the coast. "Because I think I have something that will _really_ give those frigid friars an apoplexy, or at least wet a few knickers."

"_Gross_," Wil and Fenris react in unison and Isabela's ensuing laughter is carried ahead and Wil can't help but think that she might be willing to chuckle, too, if she wasn't so fucking _cold_.

* * *

><p>The Hightown market is <em>bustling<em> when Wil returns with her friends in tow. Displeasure immediately catches Fenris off, his retreat towards the columns that separate the booths from the storage alcoves as good a place as any for him to use for his solitary return home.

Isabela remains, however, and soon Wil is draped in fur stoles as the pirate searches for the one that best suits Wil's cold complexion.

"She's not as tan in the winter, of course," the pirate explains with casual confidence to the far less enthused shopkeep, who is clearly frazzled by the effort it takes to keep track of Isabela's nimble fingers. "Gets a bit ruddy in the cheeks."

"Ruddy?" Wil pulls off a red fox, its wee feet dragging uselessly, and creepily, across her shoulder.

"It's a Fereldan thing, I've noticed," Isabela's face is buried in a pure white muff and she pulls it away with a regretful sigh.

It's an effort, complete with lip-biting, for Wil not to make a salacious comment about that.

"You are...Ferelden?" The merchant's brow wrinkles in what can only be read as _this situation is getting quickly out of hand_. Wil's impressed that the wares aren't snatched off of her where she stands. "Of course."

_That is just my luck. _

"We're not merely here to wreck your shop, I assure you," it's not true, of course. Isabela is, by her own admittance, running low on coin and Wil barely touched her winter wardrobe last year and Maker knows she has enough fur to last a lifetime, thanks to her mother's mild obsession. But Bethany is, according to a recent letter, currently stationed in Weisshaupt... "Do you have any fur-lined gloves? About the size of her hands," Wil seizes Isabela's wrist before she can palm an ivory locket and offers it up to the merchant.

"You know I don't wear gloves, Hawke," she pulls away just as her eyes lighten in realization. "Ohhhhh, a Feast Day present for Bethany."

"I had forgotten about Satinalia, to be honest."

"It's only a few days away, serah," the merchant unlids a flat box so Wil can examine the gloves within. The leather is dyed a deep shade of sapphire and the fur that tufts out is a brilliant blue white. "I doubt anything can get to Weisshaupt in time for Satinalia."

Wil frowns, tracing the white stitching that edges each finger. The gloves are lovely, and would go well with the blue and white armor that the Wardens seem to favor, but wouldn't Beth want something for herself? Something meant for her as _Bethany Hawke _and not as a Grey Warden? Her letters, although always polite, reek of resentment for her post. It would be better to give her something to ease a slipping out of that identity on occasion.

_It can't be all darkspawn and misery after all,_ Wil's stomach tightens as she recalls her sister's last correspondence, received last week and...it might actually be all _misery_, at least.

"Do you know the craftsman who made these? I might place an order for another pair," Wil presses five sovereigns into the merchant's hand and adds the ivory locket to the purchase. "For Mother," she clarifies to curtail Isabela's excitement. "She had one like it when we were younger. I used it as a fishing lure."

"You _would_, Hawke." Pushing through the crowds behind them, they manage to make it to the promenade without getting further distracted by the wares being peddled, although the scent of freshly made pies wafting over the baker's stalls are a dire temptation, bringing to mind as they do hearth and home...a real home, not the estate with its mostly empty spaces.

"I should have a party," Wil grabs Isabela's elbow, suddenly smitten with the notion, as mad as it might be considering her lack of experience with any aspect of hosting. "I mean, like a dinner party. With dinner!"

Isabela shrugs it off. "Leandra would probably be thrilled, but I can't imagine you enjoying yourself."

"What?" Wil pauses and fixes her with a confused look. "How different could it be from- _oh_." _She thinks I mean a _dinner party_ dinner party._ "I meant with _you_ guys. Not nobles."

_Could you even imagine? _

"Drunken shenanigans at the Hawke estate? Sounds like fun to me" Chestnut eyes gleam as Isabela smoothes the front of her tunic with a languorous hand. "And I have a dress that would be perfect for the occasion."

Wil pauses before ascending the Chantry steps. "Let me guess...red?"

Isabela wastes no time in going ahead of the other woman, her hips swaying in invitation. "More of a scarlet...and quite flattering, too."

Stomach growing warm, Wils' vision is momentarily filled with the image of Isabela leaning against the doorway to her chamber, her curves and smiling invitation a beautifully bawdy mockery of wealth and nobility when those curves are hugged by such finery.

"So you agree," Isabela's hand is on the door and now her smile is wicked. "More to confess?"

"Maybe later," tone airy, Wil breezes past her friend and into the Chantry. The last time she'd been here she'd been barely alive. This afternoon, however...

"May I help you, serah?" The sister is a brunette, nearly as tall as Wil but more elegant in her Chantry robes. Wil notices that her gaze does not even threaten to move on to Isabela, who is preening beside her.

"Actually," _actually thank you for greeting me because if I can hand these off to you now, I can have this done._ "I have some poultices for the Grand Cleric. This is just a partial shipment, and this batch is early, but we wanted to keep ahead of demand."

"Poultices?" The priest's eyes narrow in doubt. Wil supposes that she and Isabela aren't the most trustworthy looking dames, but it seems unfair to _assume_ they're up to something nefarious. "I...unfortunately the Grand Cleric is traveling this week and will not return for a few days. Perhaps we can take receipt of your offering then."

_Really?_

"Offering? These were ordered by the Grand Cleric herself," Wil hands the gloves to Isabela and pulls open the pack of vials, carefully pushing them aside to tug out an official piece of parchment. "Here's the request."

The note is read quickly and the resulting pallor that draws the priest's face is enough to send Wil's heart into palpitations. _Oh, fuck._

"What is the meaning of this?" The woman's voice is dangerously low and Wil's posture adjusts to the undercurrent of threat.

It's with unsteady fingers that the parchment is handed back to Wil so she can see amongst the precise script of the Grand Cleric's secretary is another request, this one from a familiar hand.

_"Magic exists to serve man, yet how can mages serve their fellow man when they are kept apart? Magic is a gift of the Maker and by freeing mages of their chains, by freeing men of their fear, society could be bettered through cooperation and innovation. We should think of this when children are made well by magic, when lives are saved and bettered by a healing spell or poultice. Just as an army can protect as well as it destroys, mages, too, should not be held to one negative standard."_

_Anders, Anders, Anders._

"She...has a point, you know," Wil forces a charming smile. "Supported by the Chant and everything."

Although color is returning to the priest's face, her expression remains that of a person whom has just been tainted.

"I'm afraid you will have to-"

"Serah Hawke!" Sebastian Vael slides around the corner to save her with his white, white smile and crazily bright eyes.

"Sebastian? Do you just stand around here waiting for me to show up?" She's only mostly kidding. "Because I'm starting to wonder."

He chuckles, the skin next to his eyes crinkling and beside her Wil can sense Isabela taking him in.

"_Hawke_," she not quite whispers. "You undersold this one."

The priest glares at the pirate. Isabela offers a small wave in return.

"Sister Katrina," Sebastian turns his smile onto her and tilts his head towards the altar. "You are free to return to your devotions. Wilhelmina is a friend."

"But..."

He continues smiling.

"Yes, Brother Sebastian," is her final, meek response but Wil's too relieved to be free of her to be incensed on her behalf.

"I see you've been practicing your diplomacy," she slips the order form and Anders' note into her pocket. "I assume the next step is showing a bit of collar bone? Maybe a flash of ankle?"

"Just kindness, Hawke," he clasps his hands behind his back, his focus drifting from Wil to Isabela. "I don not think we've met before."

And he says it with a straight face. _Maybe there is something to this unquestioning faith in the Maker thing. _

"Isabela," it comes with a smirk and a strongly offered hand. "_Captain_ Isabela at some point in my life, and again in the near future. If I'm lucky."

"_Hey_, it's been known to happen," Wil encourages.

"_True_."

"I am Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven," his smile turns sheepish. "Although these days I do spend a fair bit of my time stranding around, but not _just_ waiting for Hawke."

He winks.

_Well, I'll be. He is _totally_ flirting with me._ Wil winks back. _Now _that_ should scare him off._

But it doesn't. Instead he leans against the near wall and gestures towards her satchel. His hands are strong, his forearms strikingly muscular for a simple prince-turned-choirboy-turned-_almost_ prince.

_It's something you can bring up the next time things go a bit awkward._

"The Grand Cleric ordered poultices through an acquaintance of mine. I was recruited to deliver them," she holds them easily aloft. "It's heavy."

"It must be if your assistance is required," the satchel is taken and he pantomimes a momentary struggle before fitting the strap on his shoulder. "Anything we need to know?"

_"The liquid is for congestion, fever and pain," Anders explains the thick, sweet-smelling serum, pride evident in his voice. "Before you eat it, the leaf can be kept tucked between your teeth and lip or jaw, like tobacco. It tastes foul enough, but can stop coughing for an hour or so. For someone with the coughing _plague_, an hour or so can feel like a lifetime."_

Wil, willing today to bask in the reflected glory of her friend, repeats the lesson to Sebastian and memorizes his impressed reaction for Anders-cheering purposes.

" You say more will be forthcoming?"

"Probably tomorrow, or the day after Satinalia. I have to journey into dark and dangerous places to get this stuff, so..."

He's smiling again almost proudly and oh, it makes her uncomfortable. Not the _attention_ so much as the implication of _goodness_ that might be motivated by some higher power and not just _goodness_.

_But is it just goodness when there's a pair of kind brown eyes involved? _

"You should come to Hawke's dinner party," Isabela blurts in the momentary silence that falls over them. "She's having one on Feast Day, mid-afternoon. Bring bread."

"Bread?" It's repeated as the corners of his mouth curve even further upward. "But surely you don not think that I have my own kitchen...and I am no baker."

"Sebastian, you don't _have_ to come-" _Although if you'd like to take Isabela off my hands for a few days I certainly would not complain._ "And I can bake-"

"Can not."

"I can _pay_ someone to bake bread," Wil fights the urge to throw Isabela over her shoulder and carry her, probably mock swooning and groping whatever she can get her hands on, all the way down to the Hanged Man. "Seriously. You don't need to be polite. Besides, I'm sure you have other stuff. Chantry stuff. Stuff that requires you _here_."

"In the Chantry?" His eyes crinkle warmly. "I am free, actually."

"Fantastic!" Isabela's grabbing Wil's elbow and pulling her away before Wil can talk him out of it. "Don't forget to bring pie. Or _whiskey_."

Wil's mind has gone black with something like watered down rage, but she still hears his laughter as it follows them through the doors.

"It will definitely be _pie_."

* * *

><p>"Andraste's wonky eye, Hawke," Varric gives up watching her make an absolute wreck of latticing paeste over the top of her mother's freshly cobbled pork pie and strips off his duster to intervene. "I bet the Viscount's boy knows his way around a kitchen better than <em>you<em> do."

And then he proceeds to lift two lengths of dough that immediately crumble at his touch, falling with a faint puff of flour across the toe of his boot.

"Deserved!" It's crowed a bit too triumphantly, considering that it's _flour_ and she's the only one around to see it. "At least I got it _on the pie_."

"Hmmph," he kneels to brush at his toes while she finishes her task, humming beneath her breath. When she finishes and whips around to wipe off her hands, he's waiting with a cloth, one eyebrow raised. "How much wine have you had this morning?"

"Lots!" She chirps. "And I started _early_, too."

Varric's head shakes slightly. "Of _course_ you did."

"It'll be fine!" She attempts a regal glide across the room and barely manages to make it to a dessert-laden servant's table without tripping over herself in process. "You _do_ want a cookie, don't you?"

"Oh, why not-"

The cookie barely clears his head when she flings it, landing at the end of a trail of debris on the preparation counter, bits strewn across the pork pie. It takes them several seconds of staring at the mess in silence before Varric chuckles, whatever apprehension he has that this day will be anything like the Feast Days of his youth, the tension everpresent and drumtight, vanishing in the shadow of Hawke's giddy laughter.

"Mother will put the pie in for me, now I need to talk Bodahn out of over-decorating the parlor," she seizes his wrist and pulls him through to the dining hall, a seldom used room furnished in a blend of Fereldan woodcraft and dwarven stone. The older dwarf has already had his way here, fastidiously hung velvet bunting in shades of forest green and gold obscuring the walls and adorning the high-backed chairs. The long table has been buried beneath gold-trimmed linen which is anchored by ornate candelabras to match.

Perhaps most impressive is the pair of spiders, each roughly the size of Varric's hand, that stroll a lackadaisical and meandering path around the green crystal serving troughs that break up the monotony of garish light.

"You gotta love that dwarven attention to detail," he winces as Hawke fashions her tunic into a sling and carefully ushers the spiders on for a quick ride to the window that overlooks the back courtyard. "You need to get into the spirit of Feast Day, Hawke. You could've gotten a big laugh if you left those for Isabela to find."

"A big laugh or a scene of utter carnage?" Hawke pantomimes wild slicing with imaginary daggers. "And then Merrill jumps in to help and it's just _rocks_ and blood _everywhere_..."

"Which sets Blondie off..."

"Which sets _Fenris_ off..."

"And then Aveline hits them all over the head with the those candelabras."

"And _I_ end up with four unconscious guests, a traumatized mother and a former Chantry brother who demands we repent _immediately_."

"Which means we wouldn't get out of this house for...three years."

"At _least_," Hawke leans against the back of a chair, her smile prettily dizzy. "So I'll avoid the pranks with this bunch."

"You might want to hide the alcohol. And the _valuables_," he slips his hand into his pocket and draws it out to offer up a single diamond-studded earcuff. She snatches her mother's dropped jewelry playfully away and forces it onto her pinky, where it barely goes past her fingernail. "You can start a trend amongst the Orlesians...I cawl it zee _pehnky_-cooff. Eet ees so _fawncy_."

"Also, pinchy," Hawke toys with it as she leads him to the parlor where they catch Bodahn in the act, cheerleading Sandal who has somehow managed to use the cornices to climb half-way up to the lofted ceiling. "_Please_ don't die, Sandal, it would cast such a pall on the afternoon."

"Oh, he'll be fine Mistress Wilhelmina," Bodahn doesn't appear as certain as he sounds, however, and Hawke spends the next few hours as Sandal's readied shadow, _enabling_ the festooning of her estate rather than dissuading it.

Aveline arrives to find her in the foyer, helping Sandal light the chandelier that she's normally content to leave dark.

"That looks safe," Aveline notes as she takes in the sight of her still tipsy hostess spotting a solidly built, thus heavy, young dwarf. "You _do_ realize there's fire involved in this? Not to mention you seem quite flammable this afternoon."

"Not flammable, _drunk_," it's said in an exaggerated slur. "And we've made it this far without incident. Do not doubt us, my dear Lady Aveline."

Lady Aveline can barely muster a hooded glare. "Famous last words if I ever heard them. I've bread...should I set it out or take it to the kitchen?"

"I can take it!" Sandal leaps down, his feet barely hitting the floor before he's relieved Aveline of her parcels and left the two women standing together, and alone.

There's an energy that flits between them, a stuttering of half-thoughts that could become a conversation or an argument and today is a day of _arguments not allowed_, disagreements set aside for the attainment of momentary peace.

Even if it's an illusion, Aveline dying to ask what Hawke has been doing these past several months and Hawke well aware that Aveline would never believe the truth.

Nothing. Behaving, for the most part. _Helping_. Moving boxes and picking herbs. Feeling better but not the _best_.

Hawke speaks first, resolve strengthening her immunity to awkwardness and there is no agreeing nod, but neither is there a heavy sigh and a _Not _now_ Hawke_.

"I have your gift here," she picks up a flat parcel from the nearby bench. It's carefully wrapped in forest green silk. Whether by Hawke's own hand or not, it's a lovely offering.

And it's accepted without word, strong hands sliding over the luxurious fabric before pulling at the pins that hold it closed and...

"I thought you said no pranks today," Aveline doesn't sound angry, but her own blend of confused and annoyed. "Or am I an exception?"

Hawke's chuckle doesn't help the other woman's state so she takes the plaque away from her friend and steps forward to stand beside her, holding it aloft so that the deep amber lacquer gleams in the abundant lamplight and they can both see the single word painted in bold ivory script:

_DON'T_

"It's not a prank, Aveline," she smiles warmly. "I mean, it might have started out as a joke, but you've earned the right to sit beneath this, I think."

Aveline stares down at her, lips drawn thin but twitching at the corners. "By being Captain of the Guard?"

It's handed back to the rightful owner, who accepts it again without accusation or hesitation despite the echo of _scowliness_ in the set of her brow.

"The first time I laid eyes on you, you were beating a hurlock to death with your bare hands," the admiration is plain on Hawke's face as she voices a memory neither have touched since it happened. "I fell in love with you that day, you know. Oh, Ser _Aveline_."

"You're a monster, Hawke," Aveline folds the plaque into her arms. "And a pain in the ass."

"I'm getting better!" Her chin raises as if _defying_ Aveline to question that claim. "I bet you can't even remember the last time we got into a shouty argument while standing knee deep in bodies."

She blinks her eyes three times, deliberately, and her smile is hopelessly goofy. _Please forget, Aveline. And not just for today._

_Sigh. _Aveline's face relaxes."Were that the only way you're a pain in the ass."

And...forgotten.

At least for today.

* * *

><p>They arrive alone, every one of them.<p>

It means something, probably, this single file march to the Hawke estate in Hightown. It means something in how they hesitate as they leave their mansion, their clinic, their hovel in the Alienage. It means something in how they rush the last few steps to the door marked by the Amell family crest, only to _them_ it's a sign of acceptance even if it's only the people within the walls, and not every one, who accepts them.

Gifts are given to each as they arrive. Hawke doesn't plan to hover in the foyer waiting, but they seem to have a sense for these things and as soon as one is ushered into the dining room, the door is shuddering under the command of a new arrival.

Merrill receives a potted evergreen for her home, since she's so taken with the gardens in Hightown and even Hawke's own meager collection of houseplants. In true Merrill fashion, she seems more enraptured by the designs painted on the pot, elaborate scenes of griffons taking to the sky, their riders framed in yellow light and righteousness.

For Fenris it's a goblet wrapped in crimson silk, the vessel itself all hard angles and serviceable. While rakishly slugging wine from the bottle is a not an unattractive thing to watch, a cup gives it legitimacy and one that is so distinctly Kirkwallian can only further separate him from the places he's been before.

"I...have a cup," he muses, gloved hand tightening appreciatively around its base. "Spoons would be more practical."

"Ohhhh! An idea for next year, then."

Expecting an ivory locket, Isabela's quite taken with the small leather pouch that gets presented in its stead, the hand-tooled depiction of a caravel jauntily fighting its way against a storm-turned sea earning more attention than jewelry ever would.

"Until you get the real thing," Hawke takes the corner of the bag and rocks it before stopping, perhaps in response to the sudden shadow that's fallen across Isabela's face. "Not bringing back bad memories, is it?"

"Is Sebastian, here?"

Hawke's eyebrow raises, but she doesn't press.

"Not yet...is that for me?" She flicks the corner of the manuscript that Isabela has tucked beneath her arm, pinned close to her body.

"It depends." Now the pirate gives a wicked grin that seems inspired by Hawke's clear interest, her eyes wondering down Isabela's bare throat to the cream colored tunic she's worn this evening in lieu of her normal corset and boots or a barely appropriate red dress. "I see where you're looking, Hawke."

"_Dammit_. I've been _caught_."

Her laughter has almost faded when Sebastian arrives, with pie, and is his usual vision of flawlessness. Uncertainty falters his tone, but only when he compliments the decor, and then he's telling her a tale of a daring kitchen theft and a 95 year-old cleric who chased him with a hot iron as if he really were a common cutpurse and not a former brother in her Chantry.

"You're just trying to fit in," she accuses, relieving him of his burden of pie and placing it on Sandal, who has been waiting between rooms for such an occasion.

"I am nervous about that, yes," he admits, his smile dimming and for a moment they seem caught in a trap of sincerity. "It has been a while since I was such an odd man out."

This earns a guffaw from Hawke who is all sparkling eyes as she admits, "We're _collectively_ the odd man out. Why do you think we're _here_?"

"_I'm_ here because I have a feeling at least one good story will come from tonight," Varric leans in from the parlor to assess their new arrival before disappearing back into a steadily increasing din so that Hawke can give Sebastian his gift.

"I didn't have time to wrap it...I just found it last night," she leans in close so that she can show him the small, amateurish oil painting of a stone fortress quite similar to Viscount Dumar's.

"That's my...that's our family keep in Starkhaven!" He's torn between happiness and tears. "That tree in the corner, I fell from that tree when I was seven years old. I broke my ankle and spent the summer sitting in our chapel, archiving the records and listening to the Chant."

"Of course yo...I'm glad that it's not just an ugly picture of a building then," she shrugs, a gesture of false carelessness. "You can go ahead into the parlor...Mother will probably grab you the moment you walk through the door."

"Is that a good thing?" His voice is light.

"My advice? Just keep smiling and remember that she's my mother, therefore everything she says about me is probably exaggerated, if not outright lies," Hawke pauses. "Unless she tells you about the schleetcatcher. That's totally true."

Sebastian leaves with his smile in place.

And now Hawke lingers, caught between the sounds of happy chaos in the parlor and the dining room and the silent door, waiting for the wind that's started rattling the windows to blow in a pink-cheeked mage, his blond hair disheveled.

When he arrives, it's that careful dance of _we're alone_and maybe they don't even realize they do it any longer because it means he can be who he's driven to be and she can find herself along the way.

Both of them afraid to be caught or taken by the undertow in moments such as these.

"I couldn't really wrap your present," she stands at a safe distance and pushes strands of his hair that have been blown messily astray back to where they belong. "So I'll have to show you later."

His neck moves, a subtle swallow and a muscle that jerks. When he smiles, he tries for a moment to make it flirtatious, to be human when he shouldn't, and then it falls somewhere along the lines of sweetly sad.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Wil. I almost couldn't make it."

Searching.

"It's a good thing you did...Mother overcooked just for you," she hesitates, her gaze hovering somewhere near his collarbone. "Sebastian is here."

"The prince?" His dark eyes roll upwards and he clearly thinks so little of this man he's never met, even as his hands subconsciously smooth down the front of his clean, but wrinkled, tunic.

"It's not like that, Anders," she grabs his wrist and pulls him into the parlor, her face bright with wistfulness and mischief. "Besides, everyone knows I only have eyes for _Aveline_."

"Don't push it, Hawke," Aveline is policing the doorway to the dining room, which is a hive of activity as all pitch in to lay out the piecemeal feast, cobbled together by several hands and only two of them skilled. "And move faster," she indicates Anders, who is already being offered his own breadbasket by a clearly delighted Leandra."Maker knows I'm _not_ going to be polite if that man eats everything before we've even been seated."

* * *

><p>"And here's to hoping that Hawke hasn't inadvertently poisoned the food," Varric raises a glass, his gesture echoed by the others, most wearing knowing smirks. "Especially since Blondie appears to be closed for the evening."<p>

"I'm willing to work on my night off," Anders speaks around a mouthful of bread. "Well, for a few of you."

Merrill's eyes immediately go to Fenris.

"Subtle," he seethes.

"So?" She's clearly unconcerned. "I was in the market yesterday and I overheard a weaver say that they used to do opposites on Satinalia. Clothes inside out and you gave your enemy a gift, to show love to the one you hate."

"_This_ has promise," Isabela leans forward to peer around Hawke at Anders. "I think you and Fenris should show each other _love_."

There is the sound of choking from Sebastian's end of the table, where Leandra offers him a sip of her brandy.

"Your imagination will have to suffice," the mage is in good spirits. "Although I'll give you credit for training Merrill so well. She set you right up for _that_ one."

"I didn't mean to," her forehead creases in concern.

"Don't worry, Daisy, it happens to the best of us."

Isabela takes a breath to speak, but finds herself silenced by the application of Hawke's hand to her mouth, a gesture which is met with a murderous glare and oaths sworn beneath her breath once the conversation has turned to the roasted potatoes and-

"Now we play the game of _Grab What You Want Before Blondie Eats It All_," Varric announces to Sebastian and points to the trough of thick brown stew, colored by hunks of carrot and peas. "I'd start there."

"That's why we made him his own pie," one of Wil's long fingers indicates Anders' over-laden plate. "So everyone else would have a chance to get full for a change."

They all turn their attention to the mage, who offers Varric a heaping spoonful across the candelabra between them.

"No thanks, Blondie," he's busy splashing gravy over his venison and potatoes. "_I_ was in the kitchen when Hawke had her way with it."

It's Leandra's turn to sputter.

"I didn't actually have _sex_ with a _pie_," it's said as Hawke smiles demurely over the edge of her wineglass. "Although I _was_ tempted."

"Did it make eyes at you, Hawke?" Fenris deadpans.

Aveline looks up from the serious business of organizing her food to scoff at his suggestion. "It's _Hawke_. Why put in that much effort?"

"Because she's pretty?" Spoon full of sweet corn pudding, Merrill holds it aloft for a few seconds while she considers the question further. "And because she buys thoughtful presents."

On a normal night, that might earn Hawke a reprieve.

But it's Feast Day, a day of excess _and_ humiliation and Isabela is keen to offer plenty of the first with a heaping side of the second.

"Speaking of _thoughtful_ presents..."

"Oh, this is going to be good." Varric sits up straighter in his chair, to better see the pirate.

Hawke cringes _away_, which earns a swat on the shoulder with the rolled manuscript that Isabela had carried into the estate, pulled only seconds ago from some hidden place.

"Can it wait until we're a..." Hawke swallows, her eyes shifting guiltily. "Later? We're already walking the edge of acceptability, here."

"Wilhelmina, be polite to your guests," Leandra raises her empty glass and Sebastian is quick to refill it from the decanter on the sideboard behind them.

"Sure. What could possibly go wrong?" Hawke accepts the offered papers, her face clearly paling beneath the subtle glow of candlelight. "Is it impolite to tell someone that you hate them?"

Sebastian speaks his first, "Here, perhaps. In the Marches. But I understand that Orlesians see it as high compliment."

"I would say that it's a pity you're not Orlesian, Bela. But..." she unrolls the paper, takes one look at the title and cover image, and then swiftly shoves it into her lap, crumpling it in the process. "_Dammit_, Isabela."

Just sitting there, hand over her mouth and cheeks turning the most furious shade of pink, Hawke inspires more curiosity than would have arisen from the simple acceptance of the script.

"Oh, is that the _Piemaker's Wife_?" Varric asks, eyes alight. "Or the _Guardsman in Pink_?"

"Neither," Hawke grinds out, her elbow popping Isabela in the side as a practiced hand slinks its way to where the present is being held between Hawke's knees.

"The one you were writing with that elf, from the Blooming Rose..."

"Serendipity?" Aveline's eyebrow raises in faint disproval.

"Jethann," she's corrected. "And no, this was written just for Hawke. _And_ our guest."

Sebastian's eyes could not grow any larger.

"Something tells me it was written for exactly one person," Anders stops eating long enough to push past the air of near palpable jealously that surrounds him to clarify this point. "_Isabela_."

The accusation is shrugged off, Isabela unconcerned with both its implications and its source. "Of course I wrote it for myself...what's the point, otherwise? I don't care who else gets off on it," her eyes gleam. "But trust me when I say I..._know_ my audience on this one."

Hawke goes rigid. _Anders_ goes rigid. Varric tents his fingers, thoughtful, and he's got his story.

"I bet you wish you'd left the spiders, aren't you, Hawke?" His tone is almost apologetic.

"_Utter carnage_," she forces a laugh that becomes genuine, perhaps with the realization that there are worse things in the world than embarrassing stories gifted at inopportune times. "Although, the night is far from over..."

"You wouldn't dare," Isabela pretends to stab Hawke's leg with a spoon and gets swatted away by the manuscript. "And won't you at least tell everyone the title? I spent at least ten minutes on it."

The sigh that proceeds the announcement is one of intense wariness and affection.

_This is my life. And I'm starting to really enjoy it. _

"The Coming of the Maker_._"

Sebastian's mouth falls open. Leandra giggles.

Fenris appears thoughtful for a moment, then shrugs his approval.

The rest groan their way into quiet laughter, Hawke then leading them _away_ from sacrilege, for Sebastian's sake, and towards Isabela's addiction to double entendres and nautically themed sexual innuendo. It moves on from there, dancing around controversy, perhaps even bumping against it-

Anders and Fenris _are_ at the same table, after all

but avoids its lure because Hawke's invitation had included _Behave._ _Maker knows we'll have every other day of our lives to be surrounded by jerks and to be jerks ourselves. _

It's why they arrived one by one, each alone, and rushed those last several steps to safety.

* * *

><p>It's after midnight and Wil and Anders are staring at a portrait.<p>

She'd managed to convince Merrill to stay the night, sending her upstairs with Varric and Isabela who will also remain until morning. Sebastian left shortly after dinner and she almost believed him when he said he enjoyed himself, although his eyes kept to some point past her ear. Fenris and Aveline had left only minutes before, Anders excusing himself, too, under the assumption that Wil would want to sleep.

And she did. _Does_. But she has something to show him, which is where they'd been headed before Anders had stopped to stare at a woman Wil has never seen before tonight.

"Aveline said she left me a painting," her head tilts to the side, taking in the figure clad in glittering dragonskin posed against a backdrop of muted chaos. Unhelmed, the woman's dark hair spills over her shoulders and frames a death pale face of terrifying beauty, the pale green of her eyes leaping cool from the heat that surrounds them. "I'm assuming it's the Hero."

"Yes," he confirms with heartbreaking gravity, the echo of Justice in his voice enough to startle her.

"Um...," she studies his profile now, the way the edges of his mouth are down, the way the top of his nose wrinkles, faint blue plumes of energy that escape his eyes as if the spirit is trying for a better view.

"Sometimes I think he loved her," Anders' voice is his own, but there's more than just _his_ passion pressing out at the seams of it. Of _him_. It breaks against her skin, too, and the intensity of it is...scary, almost. _Uncomfortable_. "She could do no wrong in his eyes."

"In a lot of peoples' eyes," Wil confirms. "Including yours, it seems. You never told me that you knew _her_."

His chin lowers but his gaze remains ahead. "It's not that she couldn't do wrong, she was actually very good at wrong. It's just...she did so much right," a rueful smile trembles across his lips. "It's easy to forgive someone who would give her life for your freedom, even once you figured out that it was just who she was, and had little to do with how she felt about _you_."

"It made it less _special_?" Wil tries not to compare her own actions on his behalf to what this other woman, a real hero and a _real_ noblewoman, had been able to offer him. But it's difficult. "Would Justice let you be with _her_?"

And it's two years that give that _her_ more weight than Wil intends for it to have.

"Not that I blame him, of course," the sharpness of her smile cannot be believed. "She's pretty and if Isabela is to be trusted, fantastic in bed."

"_Wil_," his eyes are on her now. "There's no way it would happen and...she _left_ me."

_Me_. Not the Wardens, just _Anders_. Wil remembers a night ages ago when Anders had not been himself as she knew him, but rather some version of Anders that she realized might very well be the true Anders. Stripped of Justice and his purpose, comfortable with a freedom that might be snatched away at any moment, he could be selfish, self-centered. Shallow. She'd not looked fondly upon him that night.

_And now look what you're getting up to_...she forces the thought away.

"I have something for you," she tugs at his elbow, pulling him away from the painting that she'll stare at tomorrow with the hopes that the hard knot in her throat isn't going to be a thing that keeps her from admiring a woman that should be, by all rights, _admired_.

They arrive at the door that leads to the cellar, Wil breezing through and urging him to follow down the stairs until they're at the small room she'd offered him months ago.

"I know what you're thinking," she leans against the wall and reaches up towards a rope that's running overhead, held by polished wooden rings that are placed at regular intervals up the stairs and, looking towards the undercity door, all the way down.

"That would be a remarkable skill," he says it lightly, but his eyes hint at something more beneath the deceptively innocuous surface.

And for the second time this evening he's too large for his skin and spilling onto her.

She yanks the rope, searching for a distraction and finding it in the lift of his brows when a distinctive clanging sounds from beyond the upstairs door.

"It's...a bell?" He gives it a tug, his hand at a purposeful distance away from hers and it rings again.

"It ends just outside the cellar exit," she folds her arms across her chest. "Two pulls for _help! _three for _let me in_."

"I can't let you-"

"Two for _help_," she cuts him off. "Three for _let me in_. Even if it is for dinner. Mother misses you, you know."

It's not untrue, and there had been offerings of food whenever he wanted food as she retired for the evening.

"And I'd hate to disappoint Leandra," his hand drops as he gives in. "Damn your persistence, Hawke."

Wil shrugs and gives him a small shove towards the lower stairs. "You can walk yourself the rest of the way, I'm going to bed."

"Here?" His head tilts towards the room when he sees her fumbling for the handle.

"Why not? Merrill has cold feet and Varric snores," she hesitates and for the briefest of moments she imagines what it would be like to stop spinning and just _try_ find traction with him. "Plus, it's actually pretty cozy."

"It's _still_ in a cellar."

"Judgmental for a man living in the _sewers_."

He chuckles and steps away, an act that always leaves her cold.

"Thanks for dinner, Wil," he skips down a few stairs and pauses, safely at a distance. "And the bell. I can't promise I won't be a complete nuisance once you start feeding me."

_Do you really think I'd mind?_

"Like a stray dog," the door opens at her touch. "Or cat."

He continues on his way, his lips curved in a contented smile and she waits for the good night jangle of the bell before slipping out of her clothes and into bed, the sheets cool and the room only slightly musty from disuse.

_Today went well. _

She thinks of the manuscript, of the momentary horror she'd felt at the reveal of so much.

_Better than it had any right to go._

It's not a surprise when she's joined, the covers pulled completely off as Isabela has no concept of courtesy, that Wil might want to _keep_ the heat she'd managed to create for herself.

"Kitten has cold feet," Isabela's mouth is anything but against Wil's throat, although the golden stud that accents her lower lip is far from warm. One bared knee forces its way between Wil's thighs and Wil allows her to settle on top, practically kneeling with her breasts pressed just below Wil's own. "Don't tell me you're going to kick me out."

Her knee pushes forward and Wil catches herself raising her hips in welcome.

"There you go, sweet thing," she wastes no time claiming one hardening nipple with her teeth, her tongue flicking itself indolently before working against it in a teasing spiral that sharpens Wil's desire to a fine point.

But before she can give in, one hand tangling itself in Isabela's uncovered hair and the other slipping up and between them so she can palm the now familiar weight of Isabela's breast, she can't help but bring it up. _Her_.

"Did you know Anders slept with the Hero of Ferelden, too?" She makes it as casual as she can, considering the circumstances.

_Just, you know, thinking about someone else's sex life while I hump your leg. _

"Hmm," Isabela relinquishes Wil's breasts with a small, moist noise and before Wil can react to anything, fingers are finding their way past her smalls, nimble creatures that tweak and stroke and _thrust_ with an overwhelming amount of skill. "I'm pretending you're the Warden."

"I'm pretending you're _Aveline_," the mild petulance of her words is lost in a gasp, her back arching in response to a pressure that's more than _insistent_.

"Bullshit, Hawke," Isabela's head comes up and Wil swears she sees a flash of white teeth in the near blackness. Whether it's a smile or a snarl, Wil will never know.

Whether it's anger or amusement remains a secret, too, and Wil decides to forgo thinking about Aveline _or_ Anders and, instead, pulls the blankets back up to cover them both as best she can considering the length of her own limbs and Isabela's tendency to make her _flail_.

"If I would have known that sex would make you fretful...," Isabela challenges her between kisses being planted down her stomach. "But I _was_ getting cold."

Wil runs her hand up Isabela's bare side. While _her _bones are already melting into muscle, Isabela's flesh is peppered with goose bumps.

Still, Wil does not respond. It was an argument free day, and being with Isabela is supposed to be a thought free

_fret free_

endeavor.

Even when she's cold.

* * *

><p><strong>Note from SF:<strong> So...I screwed up. In my busyness and admitted confusion with DA2's timeline, I botched this one. So I had to skip a few months, which means that actual Act 2 stuff will start coming up over the next few chapters. Yay?

Please direct any questions/concerns/dislike to me! This chapter is doing more than had originally been intended for it, and I'm sure there's a few things that make little to no sense (although some will be explained later on, of course).


	9. Wrapped Up

The snow was charming at first, falling serenity soft across Kirkwall, painting pure even the dirtiest, most forgotten corners of the city.

Then it became a nuisance, the delicate flakes turning into wet clumps that hit windowpanes like bird droppings, or landed indelicately on eyelids in mid-conversation, rendering everyone in the city prone to a _blinky_ convulsiveness that was amusing at a distance but annoying to endure.

With wetter snow came hopes that the remnants of earlier falls would melt away, having long since given up the ghost of purity to blacken on the edges of the streets and along eaves. Instead, the night would plunge the temperatures to well below freezing and thus the grit would become further embalmed beneath a layer of dangerously slick ice that spread like ill will over every surface, high and low, and made traveling Kirkwall before noon a fool's errand and traveling _after_ noon a temptation of fate better left to those who could afford a few broken bones, or at least a well bruised pride.

Wilhelmina Hawke has very little pride left to bruise, and a good friend on hand to heal whatever wounds her carelessness bestows upon her, but even she would rather be safely inside on a day like today, which finds her wincing against fat snowflakes and walking with her head held awkwardly to the right to better avoid the icy winds that knife between buildings and bite at her bare cheeks and nose.

"This weather should not even be possible," she mutters to a guardsman who's watching the Viscount's Way with hooded eyes that might be frozen half open, although he manages to roll them with little difficulty. "I suppose I _could_ have worn a scarf."

"Why didn't you?"

The muffled voice that sneaks up from behind is familiar, but not one that causes her to whip around or even react much at all, outside of relief because now that she has him they can navigate their way down the steps of the Viscount's Keep and take refuge in her manor.

"Most of my scarves are-" she stops talking, eyes widening in amusement at her guest's overabundance of wraps, layers and scarves. He's like a cocoon of wool and fur, muted shades of brown and green and two sky-colored eyes peering from within that verifies he's who she's supposed to be meeting here. "Are you going to be able to walk down those steps yourself, or should I knock you on your side and roll you?"

The eyes blink twice in response before Saemus begins to shuffle his way down the mushy, but still slippery, stone stairs that lead down to the court square.

Wil doesn't want to cross any lines here, but she also knows that if he falls she will be powerless to not laugh herself silly and something tells her that would bruise the younger man, even through his layers of protective cloaks. So her hand hovers at what she assumes is his elbow and she leads him with care to the front door of the estate, where they are greeted by Bodahn who begins the task of taking their guests outerwear only to hand him to Sandal once he realizes what a mountain it is that he's set himself to climb.

"_Seriously_, Saemus," Wil, her own cloak removed and put away, assists Sandal in the task and even then they're five layers down before the man can start assisting them. "Where do you think I'm taking you?"

Face freed from his scarves, his pale cheeks ruddy from the transition from cold to warmth and his chin pinkened from scratchy wool, Saemus appears somewhat frustrated by her question. "I needed to get out unnoticed."

Or maybe it's just life that frustrates him...and he _would_ pick the most obvious disguise as a disguise.

"Because there are so many people walking around Kirkwall looking like the world's most content tick?" Wil holds up a delicately stitched velvet glove, the letters SD in gold thread on a violet backdrop. "Incognito is not your _forte_, Messere Dumar."

His teeth appear at the edge of his lip, his brows pulling down and Wil wishes she had Anders handy to show him how to work up a sadface that would truly win her sympathy. As it is, although she appreciates Saemus for his thoughtfulness, he's never lost the patina of willful delicacy in her eyes.

"I wish you wouldn't call me that, Hawke," the last of his jackets fall away to reveal a plain outfit of tunic and wool trousers, crumpled and clinging wetly to his sweaty skin in places, but far more disguisey than what he'd been wearing before. "Even informal titles are..."

His eyes shift down and Wil wonders what sorts of arguments he's been having with his father these days. Perhaps _Who will carry on in my name if you don't rise to the task?_ or even a round of _I don't care what you say, my boy, the Qunari are at the very least a military threat!_

"Is this the part where you make my mother's forays into _We need to find a husband for you, Wilhelmina!_ seem like wholehearted support for my independence?" A quirk of her lips takes the edge off.

Saemus' response is to exhale in a sharp, sardonic laugh. "Fortunately he's more focused on the small things. What I read, how I think, what philosophy I find to be the most compelling...you can fake marriage well enough."

"True," her head tilts. "Or you can bother to not fake at all and be That Couple that everyone invites to their parties so they can feel better about their own lackluster marriage."

This time when Saemus chuckles, he means it. "You have no idea how many That Couples I've endured in my life. It was years before I could eat borscht without thinking about the Weintraub's and how their only public exchange with one another was regarding how quickly her corpse would burn on the funeral pyre, considering that she 'bled brandy and gin in equal measure'."

"Are you certain they weren't faking it? I could see the fun in that," Wil leads him into the parlor, where Bodahn has set up a table with hot tea and pastries. "Incisive insults over dinner, deliberately flirting with the manor staff, shooting poisonous glances at one another over desperate swigs from monogrammed flasks..."

"I...I don't see the appeal," Saemus inhales the steam that unfurls itself his tea, which is a blend imported from Seheron. Fenris recommended it, and Wil had an inkling that the viscount's boy would appreciate the gesture. "I'm afraid to ask for this myself."

Wil raises her eyebrow, suddenly reminded of all the things she'd been afraid to ask for when she was young, let alone as an adult. The list is short...admirably so. Perhaps inviting a templar to dinner was punishable behavior for a Hawke child, but curiosity had been rewarded with answers and, outside of warning Carver and Mina that certain people would feel justified in hurting their dear Beth, Malcolm had always respected their pushing of boundaries and interest in other cultures.

Even when Carver had expressed an interest in joining the order, their father had not offered recrimination but polite, if sarcastic, concern that never once verged on _disproval_.

But it hardly seems fair to mention this to Saemus, so instead she continues with her reverie of defiance.

"Just think, though. If you were the sort to feel awkward at state functions, wouldn't it be fun to drag everyone down with you? Then you could fall into bed with someone you actually care about knowing that _nobody_ had a good time that evening," she bites into a custard pastry and smiles. "Hilarious!"

"That...it's immature, but oddly romantic," his expression turns wistful. "Two against the world."

How he arrived at _world_, she's not certain, but it's nice just to see him lighten up a bit. Although the distant sadness in his blue eyes does not go unnoticed and she wonders if he thinks of his qunari friend in moments like this, or if there's someone else he's met in the interim who's shown him such respect.

_Besides me_, she adds, hastily, not willing to allow her _thoughts_ to go there.

"So tell me what we're doing today," his hands press against the delicate teacup, no doubt stealing transferred heat, and he's relaxed considerably since their arrival. "Anything to keep my mind off this evening."

This evening is perhaps why their thoughts are on matters of state and status. The Viscount is hosting a summit of sorts with the viscount of Tantervale and a pair of Nevarran diplomats visiting from Cumberland and, of course, he'd like for Saemus to make an appearance.

Which, from the silent, and subtle, snarl that twists his features, is not Saemus' idea of a good time.

"It depends. Is your shadowing me today the sort of thing that will result in me being accused of kidnapping the Viscount's son?" She takes a sip of tea. "Maker knows the Seneschal wouldn't be sorry to place me under judgment."

"Bran's hand will be stayed by my father. He has a strange fondness for you, I think," Saemus leans back and there's the faintest air of envy that surrounds his words. "He thinks you have potential."

"Potential is the worst word," her gaze can't meet his own for some reason, so she uses her tea spoon to push leaked custard along the edge of her saucer instead. "And clearly your father hasn't heard what I did to Livingston Alecks."

"No, but it can't be worse than anything you've _said_ to him," his empty cup is lowered with a soft clatter of porcelain against porcelain and now he's understanding...Hawke imagines that it's her mouth that attracts Saemus to her, or rather her ability to say the things she says and be taken seriously.

"I've been putting it off, for obvious reasons, but I need to visit the Gallows and purchase some reagents for a friend, and then deliver them. In this weather, that will take the rest of the morning and the better part of the afternoon."

Clearly Saemus was hoping for something else, but he nods in agreement and heads back to the foyer to gather his coats in anticipation of what will certainly be a chilly journey across the harbor.

"And please don't wear _all_ the cloaks," she follows him, finishing her tea in two large swigs. "The _last_ thing I need is for the templars to think we're smuggling mages out of the Gallows."

* * *

><p>If Saemus didn't look so miserable, Wil might find the situation amusing.<p>

Or not. As it is, she's far from comfortable herself, crammed between a pair of fully armored templars on a bench meant for no more than two unarmored backsides. Across from her, Saemus is nearly doubled over, his arms across his chest and his eyes telegraphing discomfort and panic from within his scarves.

"If I vomit on them, would that make this better?" She keeps her tone casual. Because of the loud and whipping gale, she could scream _I AM MALEFICAR, SEE ME BLEEEEEEED! ARRRGH!_ and the templars would not react unless her declaration ended in them getting covered in her actual blood.

He buries his face in his knees and rides out the trip like that, not even speaking until they're within the Gallows courtyard, which has been cleared of most of its snow and is far warmer, temperature wise, at least.

"I've only been here once before," he loosens the woolen bands and pulls them clear of his face. "Father detests the place and only comes when necessary."

Wil keeps her eyebrows from expressing her extreme disappointment with this revelation. It seems a convenient excuse to ignore not only the Gallows, but the mages imprisoned within.

"Would that those like _my_ father who share his opinion could avoid it, too," she muses, the tone of it far too breezy to obscure how she truly feels about that attitude. Regarding her with muted interest, Saemus does not react to what she says, but instead nods towards one of the alcoves along the side of the courtyard.

"I think someone requires you attention, Hawke," the scarves are being replaced, but loosely this time.

"Suspicious, Saemus," she twists around and he's telling the truth. Knight-Captain Cullen is striding across the courtyard, his expression somewhere between grim and relieved. "Ah, Ser _Cullen_. You templars have it pretty good, you know."

He stops close enough to hold pleasant conversation, his expression going from grim to expectant because, although it's been awhile, Wil has never _not_ held her tongue in his presence.

Or so he thinks. He'd probably smite her where she stood if he had any idea some of her more hidden thoughts.

"I'm sure citizens of Kirkwall wouldn't mind some complementary ice removal," her toe digs into a dry crevice in the stone at her feet. "But then the mages might get the idea that they're actually useful for more than serving the templars."

"It's nice to see you again, Serah Hawke," his eyes betray the weary truth of his words. "And I would caution you to not speak so freely."

_Caution_ is a precisely chosen word, and when he directs her towards a more secluded corner of the yard, she follows.

Saemus remains where he stands, uncertain how he would fit into their conversation or if he's welcome at all.

"You have me alone, Cullen," she announces once they are separate and shadowed, ignoring the bloom of embarrassment that colors his cheeks, although he otherwise maintains his composure. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes," he exhales, gauntleted fingers tugging at the edge of his tunic. "I have a sworn duty, a duty to the Maker, yet...," this is _such_ a struggle. "_Hawke_."

_Is he trying to confess his love to me?_ "Dammit man, just spit out already!" _And please don't confess your love for me. _

"I have reason to suspect that a friend of yours has been involved in a recent spate of escapes and escape attempts," the words tumble out. "It is mere speculation on my part, however. The task of finding the parties responsible has not been given to me."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she speaks quickly words which are only partially true. She'd be a fool not to know that Anders is the _friend_, and she has a vivid memory of an acquaintance of his hanged for harboring her apostate daughter. Although her mind isn't currently able to tug the separate strands together, she has little doubt that it's _possible_. "Should I be worried?"

It's a simple enough question, but it weighs on him. He presses his fingers to his forehead, he clenches his jaw.

He has a minor crisis of faith right there in front of her, then nods once.

"Needless to say, such actions are dealt with in a befitting manner," his voice catches. "Execution, imprisonment...tranquility, if deemed necessary."

It catches in her throat, that single word that shouldn't be worse than _execution_ or _imprisonment_ but is because the idea of Anders without his fervor, without that _thing_ that he has that she does well to avoid most of the time but can't always because it's too much. It's more than just passion, it's every emotion as pure as emotion can be felt, and registered in the expressiveness of his face and in the way his hands busy themselves when they're alone and...

_Stop it. It's bad enough without you going _there_ with it. _

"I will make certain that my friend knows that, were he involved with such happenings, he might be at risk for such retribution," she frowns. "Although I refuse to see such alleged activities as a _bad_ thing."

"Of course not," his arms fold across his chest, his voice aching with disappointment. "The Chantry, and the law, views things differently.

_Which is why I'm neither an Andrastian nor particularly law-abiding._

"I appreciate the warning, Knight-Captain," her tone is clipped and she begins towards Saemus without a glance backwards, leaving the templar to feel the full force of her disappointment in _him_. She imagines that it's a mutual lack of impact before focusing on how, exactly, she can relay this message to Anders without turning him defensive of an endeavor that he's clearly been keeping a secret.

* * *

><p>For once daily life in the undercity is easier than on the streets above it. Besides the steady trickle of runoff that bleeds through grates and gutters, most fed into barrels and buckets to be boiled and used for bathwater, there is little snow or ice in the deeper sections of the mines and, until they arrive at Anders' clinic, it's far warmer.<p>

Still, despite the vents and openings cut to allow access to the holding reservoir, the clinic is still comfortable. Wil attributes that to the merry crackle of twin fires burning in the back corners and the wool that's been stretch by the upper vents to prevent the air from _blowing_ in.

It does little to comfort Saemus, however, who hangs by the doors and remains as tentative as Wil is brazen. He'd been visibly horrified at the shanties clustered around their makeshift hearths, of the beggars here, because how low do you have to be to depend on the charity of fellow denizens of the undercity? and the children in their filthy rags, or repurposed flour sacks, sitting meekly along the walkways with dark eyes of muted sadness.

Anders is busy with a patient, what seems to be a merchant who has broken his arm. He'd slipped on the ice in the Lowtown bazaar, no doubt. His back is to the door, so Wil is able to slip over to where old Muriel is resting next to the only other body in today, a boy who appears barely past puberty by the proud wisps of hair that gleam on his pale cheeks. He's sleeping, eyelids and cheeks jerking, and Muriel doesn't seem to be too concerned for him, especially not when she can harass Wil.

"Look who braved the cold for a chance to ogle messere's skinny ass," grey eyes light up beneath a snowy fringe. Her dark skin is firm save for a few papery crow's feet and deep laugh lines. Like Leandra, she'd been raised in Kirkwall before marrying herself to a Fereldan merchant. After two decades of being a mid-wife in Denerim, the Blight had returned her, alone, to the town of her youth. These days, she's almost always in the clinic, checking on patients and administering simple herbal remedies to those who don't require a healer's attention. "I think those trousers are especially flattering."

She cackles approval as Wil leans over to the point of tipping in order to verify her claim and a knee is slapped when Wil agrees with an appreciative nod.

"Oh-oh, Messere," she catches Saemus hanging back, concern furrowing his brow. He's never been to the undercity before, let alone thought about the conditions that a free medical clinic therein might be in, and it doesn't take a perceptive eye to see that he'd rather bathe in the sewage runoff than tends his wounds here. "I think you have competition, boy. And this one's got some pretty blue eyes on 'im."

Wil hides her smile when Anders starts, his chin shifting to swivel his entire head around. But he catches himself before he can see her, let alone assess the _threat_.

"I managed to haggle some of that blood root from Sol in the Gallows like you wanted, Mur," Wil begins to undo the clasps on her outer cloak. "This cold snap needs to end so I can go back out myself...he wanted two silver a cone!"

"Did you do your eyes at him?" Muriel flutters her stubby black lashes, yellowing teeth biting coquettishly at her lower lip.

"Yes!" Saemus finally finds his tongue and slinks towards them. "I didn't work."

"If I had any pride, I'd be offended," Wil offers Saemus a seat on the end of one of the unoccupied cots and tries not to chuckle as he lowers himself gingerly, gathering up the sodden hems of his cloaks as he does so. "So, Muriel. Have muscles, will lift heavy things. What do you got for me?"

"No bodies today, messere, but-"

"Bodies?" Saemus' voice raises at the end. "_That's_ what you do here?"

Wil is caught off guard.

"One of the things, yes," she settles against one of the columns and wills herself to understand. This is what separates her from the other nobles. Well, one of the things. Ostagar, the fall of Lothering. Carver and Wesley and those that didn't survive the voyage over...former men and women turned to bodies to be carried and burned, or touched and abandoned, or thrown out to sea with a prayer that the Maker would understand. A life lost is to be mourned, but a body isn't a life. It's a _body_.

She thought he knew that, what with the Qun having no special burial practices for their dead.

"We can't leave them here, boy," Muriel pokes the young man who's still fitfully sleeping on the slab next to her. "Not ev'ryone has the coin or the space to tend 'em themselves, and Maker knows enough bodies get dumped down here as it is."

His hands clench around his knees, and he gives a hard nod. _Right_. _Of course._

"I could use your help for a moment," Anders is pressing against his patient's shoulder, his other palm held flat against the man's back for leverage. Wil doffs her cloak and ambles over, circumventing the cot to stand behind the man, per Anders' quick gestures. "Put your hand where mine is."

Following his instructions comes automatically, although she hesitates for a second before she rests her hand on top of his, fingers fitting in the grooves between his moments before he pulls it away.

"So I just...stand here?" The man is large, heavy with fat and muscle, and it's difficult to feel through the layers of both.

"His shoulder is dislocated," the explanation doesn't have to go further than that. Wil's spent enough time as a soldier, and helping here, to know that there's only one thing that can be done in these situations. "Are you ready, Wil?"

His eyes seek hers over the man's head. Muriel is asking Saemus about his gloves, and Wil meets the warm brown gaze with abandon and pretends as if she's not immediately stabbed with panic at the thought of those eyes dead and distant, soulless instead of full of _everything_.

"Yes," she returns her focus to her hand, and the man, and the way she can feel Anders' magic through him. Muscles tensing, she becomes both an immovable wall and a safety net and, after a crunch and a crack and the dull sound of bone being slotted back into the joint, he sinks back against her, his unexpected weight almost sends her staggering.

"He's passed out," Anders takes his feet so they can pivot him into a more restful position. "He should be fine once he wakes up. And probably terrified of ice."

"I told the Knight-Captain that Kirkwall could use some melty-magic," her hand cups her elbow, fingers twisting a fold of fabric nervously between them. "From what I could see, he wasn't in _love_ with the idea."

"Unsurprising," he frowns. "Can't let the mages feel too useful, or risk everyone else seeing them being useful."

She almost wants to pet him.

"That's not...all we talked about," she lifts an eyebrow. "I want you to be careful, Anders."

Understanding dawns too easily and he attempts to cover with a twist of his lips, a tilt of his head, his hands moving from his waist to his hips to hanging loosely and then back up.

"No more protests at the Gallows," he lowers his voice to a suggestive purr. "And no more signing my name to the card when I send the Knight-Commander my dirty _smallclothes_."

"_Anders_," she laughs, and she shouldn't. Or maybe she should because it makes him smile in a way she's not seen for ages. But it's also a smile that hurts because _tranquility_. The word is remarkably sobering, and she reaches over the cot to catch his wrist, her fingers encircling it. "Anders. I _need_ you to be careful." The next swallow hurts, sorrow is like a jagged thing in her throat. "_Please_."

_I'm not going to ask what you're hiding, I'm just asking you to not let it kill you._

He pulls away, almost as if her skin against his own is a hot brand, a painful touch. Almost as if they're alone and she just crossed the line.

"I do what I have to do, Hawke," turning away, he starts to where Muriel and Saemus are sitting in awkward silence. Without warning, he wheels back to her and speaks in a barely controlled hush, "I can't just stop because it's _dangerous_. It would be against what I _am_ to prioritize my safety over another's freedom...if there's anything I can do to help mages, I am going to do it."

"Then let me help you," it's not an outright demand or order, and he doesn't respond as if it is.

"I can't," it sounds as if it hurts him to admit it, but his eyes are hard, unyielding. "And I can't say anything more about it."

"You _will_," she challenges, sidestepping him to grab her cloak from Muriel's cot.

"Probably," and it's said with defeat. Whether it's genuine or meant to indulge her is impossible to discern, and she can't ask because he's turning his charm on Saemus. "I remember you. The Viscount's boy."

_Oh, for fuck's sake, Anders._

She is going to pay for _that_ one.

* * *

><p>Wil has been inside the Viscount's Keep at all hours of the night, running after an ambush of common bandits to give the evidence to Aveline, meeting Sorrell to escort him to his former room near the alienage.<p>

But she's never ventured, or thought to venture, into the throne room.

"Sometimes my father holds feasts here instead of the manor," Saemus had purchased a new outfit shortly after their return to Hightown and insisted that Wil change into something formal. To all that they passed, mostly city guard who would at least recognize both of them, they were simply two nobles arriving for a feast that would be happening elsewhere. That no one had bothered to explain this to them only worked to their advantage. "He'll be angry, but it's an honest excuse."

"No it's not," Wil joins him at the top of the shallow steps that lead up to the viscount's throne, which is..."So this is the seat of power in Kirkwall? Seems a bit...low-slung."

And it is. After a brief exchange with Saemus indicating that he doesn't care what she does while they're here, she takes a seat and promptly can't figure out what to do with her legs.

"Like this?" She folds them so her knees are at her chin. "Or maybe..." she shifts down, spreading them out in front of her, her skirt pulled up to mid-thigh. "Hardly seems _official_."

"There's a trick to it," Saemus regards her for only a moment before returning his gaze to the door that leads to the main keep. "I've never attempted it myself. I bet you could figure it out if you were serious enough."

Sensing he's not in the mood for her brand of irreverence, Wil slithers down to sit beside him.

"From the way Mother talks, if it weren't for magic, my family would be ruling Kirkwall."

"And my father would be just another noble. Happier, probably, and more accepting of my choices," his face is even paler in a room lit only by moonlight, his hair a wild cloud of black to frame it. "Instead I must remain _politically viable_, no matter what I think or what I want. I cannot _breathe_ without it being examined for traces of discontent or controversy. I cannot question anything and what _I_ want..."

He catches himself. Her hands clasp between her knees, eyes on the sparkly toes of a pair of impractical Orlesian shoes.

"What do you want, Saemus?" She asks because _someone_ needs to and she's still quite good at doing things that need to be done.

The response is slow in coming, although it's clear that he knows within a second of her asking what he _wants_...he just needs to work out the best way to convey it to _her_.

"Those people we saw in Darktown, those starving children, that would not be allowed to happen with the Qun. They would be fed, cared for, their safety and their futures certain," his eyes gleam, his own purpose found in these words. "It's not perfect, but it's better than Darktown, than the Gallows. It's better than nobility and those that have so much while others die in the sewers below them."

Wil is stuck somewhere around _Gallows_ but knows better to not bring up Ketojan and how his options were...or death.

"But aren't you giving up so much for that certainty?" She meets his gaze. "Like free will? Aren't you bred to do what they want you to do? To fill a role that you can only abandon by becoming Tal'Vashoth, even if all you want to do is stop being a baker and maybe become a blacksmith instead?"

"What has choice given you, Hawke?" He's not angry, nor confrontational. If anything, he's growing excited by this opportunity to be tested, to be able to speak openly about the Qun to someone who is skeptical but not as _narrow_ on the topic as most he encounters. "Are there not days when you wake and wish that you knew what you were, who you were, and had no doubt that you could be that person. That you could succeed in everything that was expected of you, because it was what you were meant to be doing?"

It sounds nice, on the surface. How much time had she wasted after returning from the Deep Roads? How many months had she shuffled through life, days she couldn't remember upon pain of death, nights spent drunk in the Hanged Man or curled up on the hearth of the library fireplace?

Hadn't she been searching for certainty? Isn't she still, although placated by the satisfaction found in assisting Anders, Lirene and her friends when they need her?

"But I have _whims_," she remembers the week before when she'd announced to Isabela that she _definitely_ wanted to be a collector of quality erotica, and nothing more taxing than that. "And I like to do a lot of things, and I'm only good at a few of them. While being forced to do what I'm good at would probably be better for my self-esteem, I'd miss doing all the other stuff."

Saemus snorts. "Spoken like someone who has the freedom to waste time and money."

"I don't think anyone arguing for the Qun can play the _freedom_ card, Saemus," Wil maintains a steady, if tart, tone. "And I'm not even getting into what they do to their _mages_."

"I never claimed it to be perfect, but it's order; it's being told what to do because they actually know you can perform in that role, and not because you're a son," he stands, his arms gesturing towards the entirety of the throne room. "My father wanted this, so I should just accept this as my future? I should play the games he plays, walk a fraying tightope with the nobles and templars on one side, and the mages and everyone else on the other? I can hardly bring myself to fake peace with _him_, what makes him think I have it in me to compromise myself to appease the Knight-Commander?"

His hands go to his hair, pushing through the mass of black and tugging at the ends in frustration. There's a wild-eyed clarity to his rant, the notes of which she's heard many times before and had even sang herself on a couple of occasions.

"Tell me, Hawke," his arms fall to his side, useless. "Tell me if you could see me here."

"I can't," she admits while holding back a strange thought that enters through the same opening _but I can't picture you anywhere_.

"I can't see you, either," his chin goes up and he's saying this as a compliment. "You would fix the city from the ground up. You want to protect the refugees and the mages. You care about Lowtown, and you don't care enough about the nobles or being liked to pretend otherwise."

And Maker knows that would go over as well as...something that would get her assassinated in her sleep. Or, if she were lucky, run out on a scandal.

"I doubt it's something we need worry about," she pushes herself up and skips down a few steps. "I don't think I have it in me to claw my way to the top, never mind the fact that my father was a mage. Kirkwall would need to be in sorry shape for me to even be an option."

Saemus' lips press together in a smile she's not expecting.

"You've thought about it."

"Not at all," Wil laughs. "I'm just prepared to talk myself out of any _real_ responsibility that can be thrown at me. Unless it involves drinking, fighting or moving heavy boxes, I'm probably not the best fit for the job."

"Riiight," it's almost charming, the sarcasm. He sighs, his shoulders dipping in resignation. "I should make my way to the manor before the guard comes after me. Father will forgive lateness, but he's less understanding when a search has been called."

"Do you need an escort?" Wil holds the door for him and together they walk to the balustrade overlooking the Keep entrance to gather their discarded cloaks.

For a moment, Saemus is distant, consumed perhaps by the emotions stirred during their conversation and the conflict between what he wants and what he's needed to be. Eventually he declines with a slow shake of his head and a sad smile.

"There's a passage out of Father's office that I can take. Nothing more threatening than rats."

"You say that, but I've seen some pretty nasty rats in my time," Wil closes her cloak and _swishes_ so that it falls to the floor in neat folds. "But I'll defer to your knowledge of vermin," she offers a final and lightning quick smile.

He's already walking away.

* * *

><p>The night bites cold, the wind up Viscount's Way a blast of frigid anger that one can only tuck in and endure.<p>

Wil walks as quickly as she can in her terrible shoes, the wool cloak billowing dramatically behind her as she moves aside to skirt the columns, which keeps her out of the direct line of the wind. It's still freezing, but she's less at risk of being caught and carried inland by a more ferocious gust.

She hears them before she sees them, three men wearing non-descript robes. The style is like that which is worn by the Chantry clerics, only instead of sun sigils and fire there is only white trimwork against a brown or grey backdrop...difficult to tell in moonlight.

It is not unusual to see people here at this hour. The guard sends and receives patrols at all hours, and criers haunt the aisles, listening for scraps of juicy information to spread in the active corners of the night.

But these men...Wil pushes her shoulders back and holds her chin just above level. She has no weapons besides her fists and although _fists_ would defend her well enough on an average night, these men don't appear to be the sort to go down easy.

Or at all.

One is watching her, which does nothing to quell the sense of disquiet that's unfolding in her stomach, or the small flare of _panic!_ at the back of her head. He's watching her, his eyes caught in moonlight and turned an otherworldly shade of silvery blue in a face of careless cruelty. Despite being completely bald, tufts of pale hair obscure his lips and chin, although he seems to be offering a grin over the space between them, and slowing as if to suggest _more_.

Maybe an assault to warm her bones? Or a quick cut and grab for the jewelry she's not wearing and the coin she's not carrying. Her heart speeds, her blood warms and when her _blood_ starts getting involved that is not, as Anders and Fenris and a few bandits and darkspawn ave learned, something to see.

His teeth show, even with the moon behind him.

_Run._

Her stomach spasms in fear, fear she's not felt for herself in a while and is it the menace in his posture or the utter carelessness of his approach? The confidence to make a move on her _here_, with guards posted near and it's not _that_ late.

_Who are you?_ She turns away, refusing the let him see anything more than a woman who is_ on her way_ and isn't about to let some creepster intimidate her, even if he is veering ever closer to her and-

"HAWKE!" This cry is familiar, desperate and comforting.

_Isabela?_

It's coming from the square in front of the estate and is followed by the put-upon shouts of what she can only assume are the Kirkwall guard telling the lady to_ Pleeeease keep it down._

"HOLD ON!" Wil starts to run, desperation helping her feet avoid any nefarious patches of ice and it's the hot burst of relief when she clears the end of the Viscount's Way and is out in the open, with familiar guards that flank an Isabela who can only be described as intensely inebriated.

"_Hawke_," she stops kicking long enough to put on a gorgeous smile. "And here I thought I was going to have to wake all of Hightown to get your attention."

The guard on her left, the mutton-chopped one called Donnic, levels his gaze at Wil.

"Serah Hawke," his address is clipped.

"Guardsman," she nods politely, hoping that her face doesn't reveal all the ways she wants to kiss him for not being creepy.

"_Isabela_," Isabela tilts her head back. "Tell them to let go of me, Hawke."

"Is that a possibility?" It's difficult maintaining such a tone of deference under these circumstances, but her relationship with Aveline has taught her that a respected guard is an accommodating guard. And Donnic is a decent man, from what she's seen. _Boring_, but decent.

"We found this..._woman_-"

Isabela manages the wherewithal to _glare_.

"She was _entertaining_ a male companion just outside of the Bloomed Rose," his eyes are _not_ meeting Wil's. "This is after, of course, being ejected from the establishment for disorderly conduct."

Ignoring the tiniest flash of surprise, Wil turns on a smirk. "I think having to call an early night at the Rose is punishment enough for this one," her hand goes up before they can protest. "I know, I know. But if you release her into my custody, I'll take her home and ensure that she has no access to anything that will help with the _exquisite_ hangover she'll have by morning..."

"Ha!" Isabela leans over to the guard who isn't Donnic and slurs, "I _live_ in a bar. I can stay drunk for _weeks_."

This time Wil doesn't bother to hide her frustration. "Not helping, Bela."

But Donnic, either trusting enough or in no mood to deal with an unsteady pirate through the process of getting her to the brig, relinquishes her and motions for his comrade to do the same.

"She's _your_ problem now," mutters the other guard.

"Isabela is nobody's problem but her own," Wil catches her by the shoulder and spins her to face down the stairs. "But thank you. I appreciate it."

_And I'll make certain the Captain knows how very much._

They've barely made it to the bottom of the steps when Isabela catches a patch of ice, the heel of her boot shooting forward. After a few seconds of arms waving, and legs staggering ahead as she searches for balance, she lands with an oof on her back, legs splayed and elbows cracking as they hit stone.

It takes Wil a few seconds to make it to her side and by the time she does, Isabela's strangely silent, her eyes on the sky as if she's nothing more than a very passionate stargazer taken by this cold, clear night.

"Are you all right?" Wil kneels next to her, uncertain where to start poking in case she's _not_. But even beyond concern is the image of Isabela, who moves with such unerring grace and confidence, windmilling her arms and flailing against the air as if it could save her. It's funny and it shouldn't be. Her teeth go to her lip and press down to hold back the laughter that threatens.

"_Balls_," Isabela shifts her hips and her feet move back and forth a few times, experimentally. "I'm not Anders, or the boy with the qunari fetish," her hand smacks Wil's away. "I'm not going to start crying if you laugh at me"

"Laugh?" Wil feigns innocence, her stomach jerking in amusement. "Why would I _laugh_? You took that spill like a champ. I just regret that I was the only one around to see it."

"Fuck you," Isabela grabs Wil this time, coming partially up off the pavement, and pulls hard on Wil's arm so that Wil loses balance and spills out next to her.

"Brrr!" After wrestling for a few moments, Wil twists her cloak around and spreads it so that it covers both of them.

Then she laughs.

Maybe she's been holding it back all day, in the face of Saemus' occasional ridiculousness and the thoughts she refused to allow herself to have at the Gallows and in the clinic but that were anything _but_ amusing.

It doesn't matter, though, because now it rings out, echoing off the stone of Hightown before being swallowed by the cold wind that's not quite as terrible down here, under a cloak and next to Isabela, who is gathering her strength to stand.

"Hawke," Isabela struggles to her side, raven hair spilling across her flushed cheek. "I wasn't _entertaining_."

Wil realizes that, since the guards had left, Isabela hasn't been anything approaching drunk.

"I don't care if you were," Wil pushes into a sitting position and it's true that she's not _jealous_. "What? Did you lose a bet? Did _he_?"

"Something like that," Isabela manages to make it to her feet unaided, and then helps Wil, whose shoes are useless for traction. "What are you _wearing_?"

"A ruse," the cloak is flung into place and Wil gathers her breath.

"A ruse?" One dark eyebrow inches upwards towards the edge of Isabela's headwrap. " And you're not even going to tell me."

"Nothing exciting," Wil's breath ghosts on the wind. "A lot of talk about expectations, templars, and mages." She stops them short of the Hawke estate door and turns to face the dark-eyed woman, who is clearly considering a change her evening's fortune. "Oh, and qunari stuff. All your favorites."

Wil doesn't miss how danger prowls Isabela's eyes at the mention of _qunari_, and Isabela doesn't miss _anything_ by the way she lunges forward, seizing Wil's cheeks between her gritty palms to plant on Wil's lips a kiss that is less a kiss than it is a bid for renewed ignorance.

And tonight, Wil is too quick to comply.

* * *

><p><strong>Note from Surely:<strong> I busted my ass to get this silly chapter done before November 1st. I'm pretending like I can actually keep a NaNoWriMo writing pace, despite Skyrim coming out on the 11th. We'll see how it goes.

Once again, thank you to everyone for reading and reviewing and being awesome. You guys motivate me to keep going even when it's far from the easy.


	10. Whatever

**Trigger Warning:** Implied sexual coercion/assault.

* * *

><p>Dribbling from the eaves, the rain catches in the outside torchlight and turns from water into transient gemstones that form a shimmering pool on the stone at Wil's feet.<p>

Ahead of her is Hightown, blurry. Behind her is a home that's too warm, caught in the stuttering transition between late winter and spring when some nights paint frost across unguarded window panes and others hold the heat of the sun close to the ground, where it lingers and steams and turns into rolling scraps of fog and damp, restless slumber.

At least there are windows to open here. The Hanged Man is at its most rank after months of being closed up tight, trapping the stench of its patrons until even Isabela relents to spending more evenings here with Wil, usually creeping out well before dawn or keeping them both up until daybreak when she would stumble downstairs and claim the settee in the library.

If Leandra or the dwarves think anything of these arrangements, it never gets mentioned.

Wil is waiting for Isabela to finish bathing. She'd shown up that evening with muddy boots and hair, her corset partially open and her arms full of serials stolen from Varric's quarters.

"His private collection," as if nothing was amiss in her possessing them _or_ her appearance. "If you tell him I took them, I will stab you."

The books are in a pile in the library along with some whiskey and a newly opened bottle of mead. Despite the windows standing open and the slight breeze that periodically pushes at the rain, Wil has a decent idea exactly how uncomfortable she will become in there.

"Wilhelmina," Leandra steps out of the foyer and in her hand is a folded piece of parchment, a letter from Bethany. "Your sister loves the gloves you sent her."

It's a lie. With Sandal's help, Wil had opened the correspondence when it arrived that afternoon. It contains no mention of love, gloves, _or_ Mina.

"I'm glad she liked them," Wil speaks automatically, disliking herself for playing along but having no choice. She can't very well _cry_ anymore.

She has a guest, after all, and she's in no mood to explain to _Isabela_ why it hurts and why she feels so guilty and like the center of her, which has only become grounded in recent months, is once again knocked loose.

"There's some bread and goat's cheese in the dining room...your friend is welcome to it," Leandra leans against the doorframe. Backlit like this, the fine wrinkles that mark her age are further softened and she is Bethany, older. She is Bethany, given a chance at life, at happiness.

_I _was _happy, __Mina._

Wil starts against the echo of her sister's voice and turns away from their mother before she can be further haunted by the similarities...and plagued by the differences.

"Thank you," Wil waits until she's heard Leandra's retreat before she takes a large step forward, hovering on the threshold of wet and dry, the rain splashing against her head and streaming in cool rivulets down her face and along her jaw and neck.

She's almost soaked when Isabela comes out to fetch her.

No questions are asked. No questions are expected when there's a pile of books and booze and an evening to enjoy both, and probably more, spread before them.

* * *

><p>Most nights he works with a small group. He doesn't know their names, and he encourages them to keep their anonymity with each other.<p>

The implication of torture is there, sort of _floating_ between them and he imagines his face is grim enough when he says it that they require no further explanation.

They know _him_, of course. It seems he's the worst kept secret in Kirkwall, which is why it's even more perplexing that it's been so long since he's seen a templar patrolling near his clinic. Wil's warning a few months earlier is the only proof he has that the templars remain concerned about their operation.

Which is why tonight, he's working alone.

Perhaps it's paranoia that their current calm is a hesitation before the storm. Perhaps it's fear for the few who sacrifice their lives when they don't need to. Perhaps it's arrogance to think that he can do this on his own, without even a safety waiting at a halfway point to aid the newly freed apostate should Anders get caught or fall to a secret guard.

No matter the reason, he's on his own and it feels fitting, somehow. He's eschewed his normal outfit for a long brown tunic and wool leggings, covered with light leather armor. The robe is hooded, loose fabric draping over his mouth and nose so that only his eyes are exposed, albeit in shadow. He's far from a sneaky man, but he'd learned a few things about tracking from Nathaniel, and Sigrun had been an invaluable teacher when he'd wanted to get around Vigil's Keep without being noticed.

The sewers, too, favor him. He knows the twists and turns of the tunnels, where to duck when he hears voices, where to feint to misdirect his pursuers so that _they_ stumble into a den of thieves while he runs free.

He knows where the wind blows through; the stench roiling along certain corridors is a physical thing that can knock a you flat if you're not prepared for it. He knows where the ground disappears and a single misstep can send you plummeting into an ever narrowing mineshaft until you're wedged between concrete walls, cut jagged by rusted equipment and too far down in the dark to be easily saved.

_And that's if anyone even notices you're gone. _

Stepping carefully and casting light only when necessary, his staff that had once belonged to a man who'd been brave enough to not only leave the circle but actually live without it is clutched in a vicelike grip. It's held for certainty, for power, for luck. It's held as a reminder that even when he's alone, creeping in the sewers and fighting an enemy trained to destroy men like him, that it's his _choice_.

There's someone in this world who would

_Probably_

gladly fight beside him if he let her, who cares enough to worry for his safety and respects his cause enough to let him at it.

_There is an apprentice being held from his Harrowing...now is not the time._

Justice wheels ahead, sensing around corners and keeping Anders from slipping in the romanticism of it all and directly into the templars' waiting arms.

* * *

><p>Isabela reads the steamy parts aloud, her voice all sensuality and seductive lilt.<p>

For a few hours, it doesn't work. Wil's preoccupied with her own engrossing serial, the main character of which is an intelligent yet bumbling bailiff caught up in the midst of political intrigue that he barely understands.

But not even the tight plotting and frequent trysts between the bailiff and the comte he's fallen in with can keep her mind from wandering its way back to Bethany's letter and the snatches of discontent festering between carefully chosen phrases and generalities that could fool Leandra, but not Mina.

Mina knows. She knows that when her sister says the men treat her without distaste or deference that she's still uncomfortable in their presence. She knows what it means when the words go from gently rolling script to small, sharp jerks of a quill that her anger is in direct proportion to the serenity she's attempting to convey.

Mina knows her sister is miserable. _Wil_ knows and is helpless to do a damn thing about it. The Wardens had done her a favor and, as Anders has indicated countless times, the best Bethany can hope for is to be placed under a commander who understands that a life of relentless grim is not compulsory for members of the order.

And, no believer she, Wil nonetheless prays for Bethany to receive that small reprieve.

But tonight prayer and wishing and the dim notion that_ miserable is better than dead_ can't lift her mood and it's only the effects of mead and company that lures her away from _wanting_ to marinate in her own brand of stultifying guilt.

"You're not even listening to me," Isabela, who has been splayed belly down on a blanket in front of the fireplace, rolls over, her tunic hitching up her hips to expose every inch of thigh and the deep crimson of the silk scraps she calls smalls. She regards Wil upside down from the floor, chestnut eyes gleaming with three kinds of lust and perhaps the tiniest bit of concern. "You must be in a sorry state if filthy limericks can't bring you around."

Wil closes the book she's no longer absorbing and examines the cover she can barely read. Her vision is busy with blurring light and tan legs and the glint of a smile she's not earned.

And underneath it all is emotional lurching and the definite sense that she should do something self-destructive because it might make her feel better, or distract her at least.

"There once was a woman named Hawke," Isabela stretches, her hands wrapping around Wil's ankle, fingers brushing up and beneath the hem of Wil's breeches. "Who always came with a _squawk_..."

"I don't _squawk_," Wil pulls her leg away, feigning hurt.

"Fine," her hands begin toying in hair that spills and pools in an inky puddle around her face. "I thought it sounded better than _comes __like __a __clock_."

"Always on time?" Will gives in, incapable of resisting the teasing eyes and the tantalizing swell of Isabela's breasts, the inviting curve of her hips, the way brown thighs shift under her gaze, parting slightly as if to say _you __are __most __welcome __here._

And she is. Welcome and drawn in with thoughtless ease, the careless bumping of her mouth against Isabela's just enough to satisfy her earlier need to do something she probably shouldn't and pull her further down a path of problems, forgotten.

* * *

><p>He hears it first, the brutal purr of abuse, a man's voice goading another to <em>finish <em>_fast, __Camden, __we __really __should __be __getting ourselves more presentable__._

And then a moan.

It hurts in two ways.

First is that sick _done_ feeling that he'd once redirected into motivation, into a hard-edged _need_ to get away, to run as fast and as far as he could in the other direction, or to make himself as smart and as ready as he could be to avoid the traps, to evade detection, to make it work because one day it would be _him_ forced to his knees or over a table and his hair twisted in steel gauntlets.

Then it's failure.

_Too __late, __I __was __too __late_ his mouth is dry, his chest constricting. Even if he manages to save the boy from tranquility, to have this done to him?

_Injustice._

It snarls from a dark place in his soul.

_Injustice_, Anders is hardly able to breathe, to think, to react to the sight that confronts him.

_Too late for everything. I was too late for everything._

The boy is young. Even if he's past his twentieth year, he's still young. His face is pink and round and hair the color of weak tea falls against his cheeks, partially obscuring the fresh brand marring his forehead.

_Too late._

He expects Justice. He expects Vengeance to fill the narrow corridor they're in with light and fire, and for Anders to shrivel up in a small, impotent ball someplace in the back of their conscious. He expects to blink and be standing alone, panting and covered in hard won viscera, the mage boy dead but also the blue-eyed templar who stands behind him, lecherous pride twisting his lips into a mockery of welcome.

_I've __been __waiting __for __you,_ the templar's smile says. _And __you __will __never __believe __what __I __had __to __do __to __pass __the __time._

The boy _Camden_ stares down at his muddy robes in blank confusion, meaty hands folded against his stomach and the tiny frown that puckers his chin no doubt caused by the state his clothes are in and not _why_ they're in it.

_His __right __to __be __enraged __at __what __happened __to __him __has __been __stolen, __his __right __to __hate __the __abuse _and _the __abuser._

The next happens quickly, the gap between decision and action so miniscule as to be non-existent. One moment it's a boy standing between abuse and salvation and having no way to discern which he should prefer, and then the boy is frozen, consumed by frigid air that blooms almost spontaneously from Anders' hands, gusting between them and past to the templar who manages to resist the spell, his readied shield coming up to act as an additional buffer.

Anders keeps it going, his soul pouring out along with the ice and his heart breaking because it's the easiest way for him to do this, the least painful. It's murder, yes, but it's also...

_"The things you don't realize you see and hear and the poetry of every mundane thing that you otherwise take for granted. Music, color...even mild annoyance. It's all gone. I would gladly give up my magic, but this is...I can't live like this. No one should live like this."_

The boy falls over, motionless, and Anders knows without checking that he is dead, and then it is only two men standing over his body.

"Now _that_ seems counterproductive," the templar kicks at the rapidly thawing mage, a smirk curling the corner of his mouth. "It's too bad. He was quite a _giving_ lad."

"He had no choice but to be," Anders snaps, wishing again that his fury would match his anguish and Justice would take this from him, strike without thought or fear and not be subject to human hesitations. "You gave him no _choice_."

Choice. It's what it all comes down to. Getting to choose where and how you live and learn, choosing to love or not to love, to be good or to be evil or to be resolutely human. Getting the choice to say _no._

"Now that's not true," the templar takes a step forward, the _schnick_ of a sword being drawn from its leather scabbard not nearly as vile as that _voice_ as it knifes its way up Anders' spine. "I always give them certain _options_, even though they hardly deserve them. I'm not a _monster_."

Then he laughs, his sword swinging free for a moment at his side, a casual movement that leaves him open for a quick jolt from Anders' staff, a quick jolt that darkens the templar's expression beneath uncertain torchlight and then he switches back to smug cruelty that is markedly at odds with his sudden forward prowling, his approach sending Anders striding backwards, weary of the tunnels.

"You think because you have magic yet walk free that you _are_ free," he whips his blade in a circle over his head. "I _know_, though. You are unafraid, dangerously unafraid. But every man has his weakness, a place where even the dullest blade can find entrance and every wound made there festering. A handsome man with a love for poetry-"

Anders' back slams into the edge of a wall. He knows where they are, he can see it in his mind but he's turned around and should he go left or right? One tunnel will lead him to the clinic, the other downward towards unfamiliar shafts and certain capture.

"He was a deceptively quiet one..._Karl_," he wraps the name with perverse attention, pushing the center of it along the roof of his mouth and letting it _linger_. "Well, _most_ of the time. _Defiant_, too, right up until that moment when he couldn't be."

The noise that comes out of Anders is painfully human, the sound of air rushing forced from his lungs, as if these words are a maul striking his stomach.

"Oh, I know," his sword is leveled towards Anders' stomach. "It's hard, isn't it? If only, if only, if only. If only you'd not written him. If only you were faster to arrive this evening. If only you had never met that pretty thing with the _eyes_."

_Pretty __thing_...Anders' senses are consumed with acrid panic.

"But it's not your fault she's a confident young woman, traveling alone at night and sleeping beside an open window..." the sword inches closer.

Anders doesn't see it. Anders can't see anything but the tunnels that lead back to the undercity, and a ladder that leads to a _door_ and

_-if I go right, I can take the tunnels up to that split, and double back and follow the sewers. Ten minutes, lose him, and make certain that-_

his will expands with a snap, a powerful outward wave of energy that is almost immediately nullified by an anti-magic ward. Nonetheless, there's a split second where the templar is staggered and Anders takes it, whipping around and flinging himself forward into familiar darkness, his feet guiding him and every ragged gasp for air felt.

He waits for Justice to help him, to prowl ahead like a mental scout. Instead, Justice maintains his sudden silence.

This is not a night for him, it seems.

* * *

><p>Isabela smells wonderful, like saltwater and leather and cloves. She smells like whiskey and sex and when Wil's cheek is pressed against her chest, it's hard not to spend far too long just <em>breathing<em>.

Needless to say, Isabela prefers for her to move _past_ the breathing.

"Sometimes you're too Fereldan by half," fingers curl themselves into Wil's hair, twisting a long strand and tugging it for emphasis.

Wil widens her mouth, teeth sinking gently into firm flesh.

"_Doglord_," Isabela purrs, her hips shifting in clear intent. "Too bad they don't make muzzles in your size."

This earns a pinch and then Wil decides to give up on breathing and pursue _breathlessness_.

It's tricky, though, with Isabela. She wants to dominate _and_ be pleased, and Wil very much wants to please, but there are hoops to jump through. Like a corset that is so fucking hard to take off when one hand is occupied with Isabela's deft and flicking tongue while Wil's mouth busies itself tormenting firm nipples through white linen that becomes translucent with the careless application of _wet_.

It's fun. It's fun is using her tongue to shift the fabric across the sensitive flesh, ignoring the sharp edge of teeth that bite at her thumb and the way that Isabela writhes against her thigh in response. It's fun to illicit moans from someone like Isabela, who can take so much pleasure from the lightest touch and give so much in kind.

But..._hoops_. Wil's rarely allowed the upper hand and she's only managed to nudge open the corset when the other woman twists sharply to the left, sending Wil over and onto her back.

"Dammit, Isabela," she pushes at a pile of books that makes a horrible pillow and curses herself for being so unstable. Too much mead, she supposes. Too much mead and too much warmth and all of it taking her off her guard and- "Oh. _Oh_. OW!"

"Don't even complain about my fingernails," Isabela's voice comes up from the gap between Wil's still covered breasts, her chin resting on Wil's lower stomach.

"You mean your _talons_?" Wil wriggles away from a very _devious_ hand, Isabela following the trailing loose ends of the laces that are doing a piss poor job of keeping Wil's pants on her hips. "When did you _do_ that?"

"Quick hands," Isabela crawls after, lower lip dragging up Wil's stomach, catching the gathered fabric of her tunic before finding its way along her neck. Their mouths meet in a long and messy kiss, tongues sliding past one another with drunken, languid ease.

It's that kiss and the aftermath that finally earns a response and desire uncoils from a place beneath Wil's stomach. Her skin sparks along the paths Isabela traces, that she claims with touch and tongue, and a pressure begins to build at Wil's center, aided no doubt by skin on skin and _writhing_.

A white corset is flung to some forgotten corner of the library, a tunic flung someplace else. Wil palms the pendulous breasts, running her thumbs over the still taut nipples, and then slides her hand along Isabela's sides, searching up along the sinuous line of her hips and over the ample curve of her bottom.

The red smalls are still in place, and Wil tugs them past strong thighs before replacing them, sinking her fingers in and pulling Isabela down, her own hips thrusting up to meet her.

"I think you should get on your hands and knees," Isabela shakes her off. "I have an idea."

The building tension is halted, and Wil frowns. "Is this an experience idea, or a filthy limerick idea?"

Isabela's on her feet, smalls being shaken out past her ankles. She pauses and offers a smile that is miles from reassuring. "Trust me, Hawke."

"I'm sorry. All I heard was _you're __getting something shoved up your ass__, __Hawke_," hands finding nothing but carpet, Wil manages to sit.

"I hadn't even thought of that," Isabela is halfway up the library stairs and, from this vantage point, Wil can clearly see the stars tattooed on Isabela's lower back.

_"They're to guide you," she whispers, sleepy and beautiful. "Well, you if you have a cock or something like it and want to take me from behind."_

"Maker, I should know better by now than to-"

_tinkle_

It whispers through a fog of drunken lust and bemusement. Then-

_CLANGCLANGCLANGCLANG_

"Fuck," Wil's feet are hard to find, but somehow she gets them beneath her and stands.

"Hawke," for a moment, Isabela attempts to compete. She's naked, after all. Under any other circumstances, it would be an insurmountable lead.

But _Hawke_ is too busy trying to remember if more than three rings is a thing and, if so, does it mean _Hey, __I __just __wanted __an __excuse __to __see __you_ or _Andraste's __flaming __ass, __there __are __templars __everywhere!_

_CLANGCLANGCLANGCLANG_

_Probably the latter. _

* * *

><p>Crouching at the top of a ladder is difficult.<p>

Even more so when you're fairly tall, as Anders is, and in armor which is not flexible at all and painful when pressing into flesh.

But there's a chance the templar had made it out, that he found his way despite Anders' best efforts to lead him astray. There's a chance that, at any moment, Anders could be smote from below, the man not wasting time on psychological damage but focusing on capture.

When he's not listening for the sound of armor, he's revisiting their conversation, which is a tangle of revelations, some of which could be untrue, but the greatest one is that he knew who Anders was. He knew about Karl, about _Wil_...

Anders tugs madly at the cord again, his legs aching and his breath growing more ragged the longer she doesn't respond.

But if they know about him, if they've _known_ about him, why is he allowed to remain outside of the Circle? Why do they allow him into the Gallows on the rare occasions he goes shopping with Wil? Why haven't they captured him for his involvement in the Mage Underground?

_What game is this? _

The door lifts with a creak and a jerk and questions are abandoned as he scrambles past the entrance and tumbles into Hawke's cellar, practically at her bare, and now filthy, feet. He manages to stand just as the door is secured and he cannot lift her in relief, nor hold her nor kiss, but he can stare for too long, too intensely, and all the strange details of her, the damp of her clothes and hair, the flush of her cheeks and chest, are lost in the familiarity of her eyes and the tiny, confused smile that tilts her mouth.

"Mina," he pulls the name from lonely musings, moments when he can set aside reality and give into the whims of his heart and his body and Mina just...comes. _Wil_ is who she is, to herself. _Hawke_ is who she is to others, to friends and strangers. _Wilhelmina_ is so _formal_, but _Mina_ is ownership of a small part of her that she only shows to those who matter most, those who slip past the sarcasm and the walls and the armor that he imagines she wears even with lovers. He doesn't know where he belongs, where she wants him and he certainly doesn't even know how far he _can_ go himself, but in his dreams she is _Mina_.

"Is that easier?" Her eyebrows are up, eyes guarded with effort and her face serious.

_Is that easier, pretending I'm someone else?_

"I...," he swallows _I __don't __know_ and _I __can't __say_. He swallows _I __love __you_ and _I'm __sick __of __not __being __with __you_.

He swallows _I __was __so __scared __for __you, __Mina_. _I __was __so __afraid __that __you'd __been __hurt __because __of __me, __and __that's __not __what __I __want. __That's __why __I'm __not __with __you. __That's __why __I __fight, __so __someone __like __me __can __be __with __someone __like __you __and __not __always __fear __for __their __safety __and __their __lives._

Whatever she wanted to know is unimportant. Taking his hand, she leads him up the stairs to the cellar room. He follows in silence, feeding off the warmth of her fingers entwined in his, in the way she's doing what she can to comfort him even though it's becoming clearer by the missed step and stumble that she's not exactly mentally equipped for it this evening.

That doesn't keep her from trying once they're in the room and candles are lit.

"Talk," she leans against the doorframe, distancing herself. Giving him room to pace and gesticulate and to work himself up into a righteous fury like she's seen him do so many times before. "I'm safe, you're safe. Tell me what happened or...whatever."

_Whatever_. In the almost eighteen months since they've been speaking he's been hiding from her. The Mage Underground, the fact that time passed has done nothing to change how he feels about her nor the fact that he's no less likely to ruin her life than he'd been the day after they'd returned from the Deep Roads. That _whatever_ is an acknowledgement of what he keeps closest to himself, that which she will never know, and she is _not_ going to push him into sharing.

She watches him, patient in a way usually reserved for Bethany or Merrill.

So...whatever.

"It's more than incarceration," he begins, his voice trembling as anger cuts a jagged line up his chest and jabs at the core of him. "It's having your humanity stripped away or used against you or decimated in the most humiliating ways possible. It's about being crushed beneath the heel of those indoctrinated to see you as evil, as tainted as a darkspawn, just for being born a certain way. It's about the power we have that we can never use, and the power templars have and they're _encouraged_ to use every day against us," a round face appears in his vision, the eyes empty and the brow marred. "It's not about physical confinement anymore. It's not about safety or the potential that we have to be possessed, as if we are unique in that regard. It's not about keeping us safe from the very society that has been indoctrinated to fear us and hate us and to _other_ their own children in order to avoid the stigma.

"No," now Justice has arrived, a subtle swelling of emotion that is already high and the faint echo in is voice. "It's about destroying us. It's about treating us like animals until we have no will, until we have nothing left but holes to fuck and hands to enchant and voices that only confirm our inferiority, our obedience, our deference. How...," his voice is his own again, as are the tears that course down his cheeks and they're mirrored in Wil's eyes. No doubt she is thinking of her father or Bethany and the fate they'd managed to avoid. "How can you look at people, at children with eyes and smiles, and want to see them empty? How can you hate someone who is almost exactly like you? What is it about mages, about _me_, that justifies such cruelty?"

She wasn't expecting this. She's heard most of it before, but he knows he's venting a deeper level of rage, of self-loathing, of lifelong confusion. Even _he_ is unsettled by it, by the memory of his voice wrenched with anguish, of-

Her arms are around him, sudden. Her arms are wound around his neck and there is not even the pretense of distance as she presses her cheek to his and if he weren't in armor he'd feel the heat of her body against his own, heat for the first time in _years_.

For a moment he is stiff, he cannot allow himself to yield despite how he wants to collapse against her, to remove everything that stands between them and feel the full force of her reassurance, of her silent response that is, at its heart, _I __have __no __idea __how __anyone __could __be __so __cruel_, but far more complicated.

It's fingers twisting in his hair, one hand tenderly cupping the back of his head, that moves him to sag against her, to be held up by a strength, by a _certainty_, that comes as a surprise considering her earlier fumbles.

And the relief he'd felt earlier to see her face is nothing compared to _this_ relief, this moment when so much that has been weighing on him slips away as if the act of lowering himself just a few inches has created a slope for everything to spill down.

Or maybe it's being cared for. Maybe it's the wordless yet reassuring noises being made at his ear and the breath, hot and damp, behind it. Maybe it's the way her body moves to meet his hands when he brings his arms up to encircle her waist, maybe it's all the signs-

_the shifting, the press of her hips against his own, the way her cheek rubs along his jaw and a small, achey moan that is barely heard over his own heartbeat_

that she _wants_ him to touch her, to give what he can and nothing more than he's comfortable giving.

Maybe it's just this: acknowledgement of his humanity. Propriety and what they can't be to each other is unimportant when he is in such desperate need of a fucking _hug_.

* * *

><p><strong>Note from SF:<strong> To be continued...


	11. Anders

There have been dreams that felt like this.

Like she's found a perfect balance on the edge of perpetuity and nothing can sway her or tear her down.

It seems strange that it would be on a night like this one, splintered by a permanent loss and drunk and so recently...with Isabela.

But she feels victorious, as if she's doing something right and long overdue.

_You should probably let go._

And she should. At some point it will go from kindness to creepiness, as if she only hugged him because he was vulnerable, where she could easily push him forward and into a place he doesn't want to go. And she hadn't.

Although...no. She loosens her arms around his neck and turns her head towards him, withdrawing but allowing her cheek to skim his own, stubble tickling and sending an ache of _why can't I have this all the time?_ down her throat.

_Why can't I have this all the time?_ She pulls back just enough so she can see his face again, his long crooked nose and his mouth and his _eyes_ that she expects to be closed are open in intense observation.

Both of them remain ensnared and she should definitely let go because...this...isn't...

She does this thing when she's drunk, when something feels good against her fingertips she'll rub at it, mindlessly. Sometimes it's a spot on the table, or a piece of fabric. Once it was Isabela's ear and another night, Bianca's stock.

Varric had _not_ been thrilled.

Tonight it is the fine hairs at the base of his skull, warm and soft and it reminds her of a kitten belly and while she's thinking about permanency and he's observing and his hand is traveling slowly down her back, petting his neck is a terrible idea.

_Terrible_. Her throat tingles.

"Do you need anything?" She asks without blinking, afraid to move her lips too much lest they somehow end up on his own. "I can get you something to drink, to eat, to...warm your bed."

His hand stops. Her fingers stop.

"Mina," he warns and it's like the warning _Wil_, only this isn't _stop being charming because it makes me like you too much_. It's _stop existing because I am _so_ close to throwing you on that bed _right there_ and fucking you senseless_.

Or maybe she's projecting. Isabela had awoken in her tonight something that has yet to be sated or laid back to rest and it's spilling inside of her, limitless and warm.

"O...kay," she moves backwards, suddenly aware that kind/creepy line has been crossed and the moment they're apart she realizes she's _definitely_ on an edge, but far from balanced. _Wobbly_ even. Certainly uncertain. _My head hurts._

"I'm drunk," she announces. "I thought you needed a hug," is added in her most helpful tone.

As if a hug could heal him. As if a hug could do anything more than just alleviate his pain or momentarily defuse his justifiable anger that she will never completely understand because loving mages is not the same as being one, and even if they could be together, the clothes off, skin-to-skin and melting-into-one-another _together_ that she's not allowed herself to dwell upon in _too_ much detail, she would only be able to offer temporary retreat. Even with her arms around him, even with her heart and her support the world would be against him, the things he's seen and been through still festering within and amplified by Justice. Amplified and driving him always, and probably away from her.

She wants to do more than hug him, _that_ she knows and in a sharp way that not even alcohol can confuse. But even if he were willing...

...his face is full of _everything_, so much so that it's impossible to pick any one thing out...

she's not certain what _she's_ ready for, exactly. Lust and adoration and warm urges would not be enough. Aren't going to be enough.

Her heart aches_. Stop thinking about it. Also, _say_ something. _

"We have cheese and bread and, um..." _a naked pirate in the library_. "_Cider_."

For a few seconds, he looks as if he's just awoken and the world is a concern. A frown creases the skin between his eyes and he takes a step towards the door. "Oh, I didn't intend to..."

He stops because she is blocking his way. Bodily. _With her body. _

"No! You're staying," it comes out like an order, as if she's commanding him in battle and not offering him a safe place for the evening. Realizing how unlikely he is to enjoy such an approach, she backs away, out onto the landing and clarifies, "If you want, I mean. I'm not going to _force_ you, of course. But you're welcome to and I _want_ you to."

She also wants him to stop looking at her with _adoration_, which has floated to the top of the mess of emotions he's managing to portray with the set of his brow and the curl of his mouth and the subtle flare of nostrils.

And she knows that she can give a good hug when a good hug is called for, but right now she feels a bit...undeserving of the praise in his expression.

"Whatever you were doing, I imagine it was far more noble a thing than I was getting up to," she's saying it more for herself than for him. "Heal the sick all day, fight for freedom all night. I did _nothing_ today _and_ I have a nnnnn-ight of nothingness to follow it."

For a moment it burns between them, he as much as she and he has to break it like a spell, shaking his head and exhaling.

"I know you do what you can, Wil," he attempts a smile that can't quite come to life. "But...I need you to be careful. I can't bear the thought of them hurting you. You're the best thing about this city-"

"Don't tell Fenris, he might get _jealous_," she's deflecting, uncomfortable by the intensity of him that's pulling it out of her, too. She's embarrassed by how much she feels, by how confused it's become as this tiny step forward has forced her to see an entirely new facet of him and what it means to be someone who cares. For _him_.

In a breathless and _sinking in_ kind of way.

He acknowledges her joke with a grim quirk of his lips before pushing on. "You have no idea how worried I was tonight and I know that you're strong and I know that you could take them, I just...when I think of it I go...," his voice is rough with passion that falls spills over the words in a way he can't control. "I don't care. I would drown us both in their blood to keep you safe."

_What?_

"Drown me in blood?" Somewhere through the fog of feelings and uncertainty is a dim thought that she would do the same for anyone she cared about. But from him, and uttered with such fervor, it's... "Don't you remember what happened the _last_ time I was drowned in blood? Do you really want me to gain secret templar strengths?"

She's shocked at how level her voice is, at how quickly she can defuse herself when she needs to.

"That's who I am," Anders' arms fold across his chest. _I thought you knew that._ There's a brightness in his eyes that might not be the best thing. "I suppose I should...I suppose I should return to my clinic..."

"Maker's breath, Anders," she presses her palms together, pushing them hard, painfully so and forces herself to focus. "I was just trying to be funny. This place is yours, whenever you need it...," her eyes meet his one last time. "I'd be letting so many people down if I didn't do everything I could to keep _you_ safe."

And the faint smile she gets in return deserves another hug, and probably a kiss. It deserves beautiful things for being so beautiful. It deserves offered strength for being so fragile, for existing only because she is in front of him at the end of a long day and a hard night and he having to be who he is in this world, in this _city_, and alone save for a voice that will never stop reminding him of all that is worst.

She could be a counterpoint, she could be comfort on hard nights, warm laughter and tangled limbs. She could be such a distraction, such a respite, such a reminder of who he really is when the world has him seeing only what he's not and never will be.

But she can't force him into anything, not when she has questions herself. She has to walk away from him, walk away from those thoughts _again_, up stairs and up stairs and up stairs. She has to doff the things that _could_ be

_Not ready yet._

in favor of the things that _are_.

_They might change._

Somehow she makes it to her bedroom and there's Isabela, ready to carelessly tug at Wil's tunic, teeth digging into Wil's exposed shoulder but only after her eyes betray clear confusion that Anders is so close, but Wil would choose to return and finish what they'd started.

_They'll probably change._

When it's done, they fall apart in spent exhaustion, Isabela sprawled on one side of the bed while Wil stretches along a narrow edge, her body trained by years of sharing small spaces with her siblings. This is normal for them, the space.

But tonight Wil wouldn't mind...less space. Her arms are always empty these days, but tonight it seems like a waste of _I'm here for you always_ that she wants to give, and not just sex or sarcasm or carefully prescribed distance. It's something she can offer sometimes, something she used to live and breathe, and for a few minutes this evening it had all come back to her and now her muscles are itching with the memory, aching to relearn the old steps and perhaps add new ones.

Her hand goes out in the darkness, searching for warm skin and finding the gentle slope of Isabela's lower back as the woman's hips shift in welcome of whatever a searching hand might have in store.

Wil just rests it there, fingers curling in possession of not a woman but the secrets and pains that that woman holds close, the things that have her anchored _here_, in Kirkwall and a lover's bed.

It's not perfect, it's not saying what she wants to say and more to someone who isn't even in the same room, but it eases the worst of the disquiet within and relaxes her enough to drift.

* * *

><p>The Hanged Man, never the most orderly of establishments, appears to have been the victim of very brief, very targeted cyclone.<p>

Tables are knocked over, chairs tipped sideways and littering the floor. Broken glass glitters beneath crooked lights and the darkened outlines of spilled spirits are islands in a sea of debris.

"What happened?" Wil hisses it, as if the Hanged Man can _hear_ her and she doesn't want him to know that she's noticed his..._situation_.

Varric doesn't respond. He's as out of sorts as his beloved tavern, duster askew and shrewd hazel eyes dimmed with exhaustion. Instead, he runs his bared fingers along the flap of Wil's satchel, which is actually Isabela's satchel. It's the one Wil had given to her on Satinalia, emptied and discovered that morning on Wil's writing table.

"Sign the first," she explains, throwing the bag onto Varric's table. "Sign the second was all the whiskey being gone."

"Gone?" Varric's eyebrow raises. "Or _gone_ gone?"

"Taken. Three entire bottles."

"She's not in her room, either. What _happened_ last night?" He's not asking for details, for scintillating but tasteful glimpses into what he imagines is a fevered and depraved affair. He's playing detective and Wil realizes that the reason she's here might be the very same reason why the bar is in such a state of _a pair of rabid bears decided to have their way right in the middle of the floor, and who were we to stop them?_

"Well, there was alcohol-"

"Of course."

"And shenanigans."

"Inevitable."

"Anders had a crisis."

"And you dealt with it? In the middle of..._shenanigans_?"

"Yes?"

His eyes narrow thoughtfully, "She would have gotten suspicious otherwise."

"Probably," twisting the edge of her tunic between her fingers, Wil forces herself to mentally gloss over how she'd dealt with Anders' crisis, and how she'd not dealt with her own that had ensued in the aftermath. "She seemed fine when I came back."

"Oh," this wakes him up. "_Hawke_."

"_Tethras_."

The sigh he issues is one of you _wouldn't possibly understand what I just realized_ and Wil's just hungover and worried enough not to mind.

"So that's what _I_ have," she sinks into one of his chairs. "Care to fill in the rest?"

He stares at his fingernails, immaculately trimmed into neat squares and buffed to an impressive shine. Then he shrugs, a gesture of resignation, of defeat. Of not knowing when he usually _knows_. It's disappointing even _without_ the whole _and it happened in my home_ angle.

"No one who works here will give me a straight answer, and my usual eyes seem to be missing in action." Failure.

"Where were _you_?"

"Hiding," regret tugs at the edges of the word. "The Merchant's Guild is getting suspicious of my absences from their..._to dos_, so they've been sending stewards in to case the Hanged Man. Since I can't be here and Starkhaven at the same time..."

"Starkhaven?" Wil's eyes widen. "How long have you been holed up here?"

"Two days," dismissively. "Trip got cancelled. Carriage lost a wheel. I felt a cold coming on."

"Forgot to pack your smalls?"

"Ha," amusement relaxes his features. "If I wore them, that would be a pretty good excuse."

"As long as the Guild doesn't know, it can _still_ be a good excuse. And not one anyone wants to verify," she adds with a smirk that turns into a sigh. "We should try to find Isabela. Make sure she's not gotten herself arrested or started a war or something."

Bianca is fit neatly against his back, the shape of her stock seemingly lathed for him alone, and it's the final piece he needs to become Varric again. "It would be just like Rivaini to start a war," he shrugs and manages her distinct lilt of _What? Can you blame me?_ "Everyone was asleep and I was _bored_."

"They promised me treasure," Wil cocks her hips and raises one eyebrow in a lazy gesture of pure insouciance. "You know my feelings about _treasure_."

He forages ahead, into the tavern, and just as he said there are no eye-witnesses that are immediately willing to spill.

"For Maker's sake, what's gotten into you people?" Wil looks pointedly at Snitch Fallon. "Your _name_ is _Snitch_-"

"Comus, actually," he interrupts over his ale, the sniff that follows positively disdainful of her ignorance.

"Whatever. The point is, you've snitched enough in your life _that people call you Snitch_. So...?" She jingles her coin purse suggestively.

"I'm not for sale," it's a bland dismissal but she catches the subtle tightening of his hand around his tankard and if it weren't for Varric waving at her over the heads of the other drunks she'd have actually plunked down a few gold.

"Too bad...looks like somebody else is going to benefit from my generosity."

The man who is finally talking is the man who always talks, all nervous babble and stream of consciousness. Today he's sporting an armful of string bracelets, some of which are adorned with a simple charm. Feathers, claws, a couple of teeth and a smooth shard of colored glass. It reminds Wil of Lisbetter, an herbalist near Dragon's Peak in Ferelden who wove her hair with bits and baubles found and traded to her in exchange for potions and treated herbs. But Lisbetter had been an apostate in the backwoods, not someone who Wil has never _not_ seen in a city tavern and, well, it gives her _pause_.

"We're going to trust him?" Her nose crinkles slightly. One of the teeth is blackened with decay.

"We have no choice. Just..._listen_ for a minute."

The man overhears, hesitating in the most infuriating of ways just as Wil allows herself to lean against the closest column and open her mind to his ensuing prattle. Dark eyes focus on her, and his fingers begin to toy with the strings around his arm, touching the charms for reassurance and perhaps to capture a memory that her face has shaken loose.

"Shouting, loud. Loud shouts from below...lost at sea is not lost at sea and the truth is that some fights are not so obvious," he stops fiddling and frowns, Wil noticing for the first time the faint brown stains that mar his skin and the way his eyes are disconcertingly crooked. "She could have won, but table tops and chairs and shouting and _loud_. The market could hold them, but orange stops the fun. Orange and blue and shields and _order_. I've seen order here, she is _not_ order and _she_ is order and together they are...like you, only different."

He smiles and she's fairly certain that the teeth he wears are from his own mouth.

_Less creepy or way creepier?_ She steps away, leaving Varric to thank him and follow her out the front door of the tavern.

"Did you get it, Hawke?" His eyes are narrowed against the muted sunlight that manages to filter through a dense layer of clouds.

"That guy is creepy," she's being buffeted down the market by the noon rush, workers brought up from the docks and foundries in search of a quick meal. "But he also seems to pay attention."

"Do you think the guard paid people off?"

"Doubtful," Wil sidesteps a pile of horse shit and is forced into an alcove by an oncoming band of templars. They're not the normal recruits she sees around Lowtown, their armor is that of the full knights and lieutenants and something about the faceless wall of soldiers turns her cold even before one of the men goes out of his way to stare her down, his identity safe beyond the narrow eyeslit of his helm.

Unfair, when she is a civilian today. _Unfair_, when mages are not allowed such secrecy, such protection.

Varric finds her across the way, his gaze following the processional until they're swallowed by the crowds.

"To the undercity? There's an entrance nearby that should get us to Blondie in about ten minutes. Or you can take the clinic and I can get someone to the alienage."

The urge is to hug him for the concern that rasps in his voice, and for either sharing her priorities or knowing her well enough to automatically go there.

"No...they're heading towards the docks...hopefully this is just a reminder," anger flares where momentary fear had resided. "The Knight-Commander can't let anyone forget who _really_ runs Kirkwall."

"I hope you know better than to say that around the Captain of the Guard."

She stops to regard him with bemused disbelief. _Of all the things to hope that _I_ know._

"Sorry, Hawke," as if it's a sacred trust that's been betrayed. "Sometimes I forget."

* * *

><p>"I was told this would be kept quiet," Aveline's face is framed between ink-stained hands, calloused fingers digging into her temples to stave off a headache that might not have anything to do with the woman and the dwarf crowding her.<p>

It _might_ not have anything to do with them, but it probably does.

"_Av_eline," Wil leans forward, her hands doing what they can to disrupt the pre-existing chaos of paperwork on the captain's beleaguered desk. "Have you actually _met_ Varric?"

"I can find out how much sugar you had in your tea last Tuesday," he shrugs. _No big deal._

"Aveline doesn't drink tea, Varric," Wil bares her teeth in a fearsome snarl. "Aveline drinks only spirits as strong as she is, and the blood of her vanquished enemies. And those assholes that make too much noise in Hightown after dark. _Grrrrr_."

Aveline is not amused. It might not be an exaggeration to say that her lack of amusement is bordering on _murderous_.

"Ahem," hands busying themselves with resorting her paperwork, Wil takes it down about ten notches. "Also, there's that guy who is always mumbling around the Hanged Man? Apparently he saw what happened."

Sighing, Aveline leans back in her chair. This afternoon she wears a mask of exhaustion, eyes purple beneath bloodshot whites, fine lines visible at the corners of her mouth and Wil can't ignore the pang of guilt that accompanies _why do you have to be such a jerk sometimes, Wil?_

"I knew she was trouble, but to instigate an all out _brawl_," Aveline's profound lack of love for Isabela hardens every syllable. "It took twenty of my men an hour to sort out the mess in the bazaar, and I'm waiting for complaints of missing merchandise."

_Brawl?_ Wil and Varric share a quick look and their lifted brows and matching expressions of _Dammit, Rivaini_ don't go unnoticed.

"So you didn't know as much as you pretended," angry eyes cut from Wil to Varric. "I'm not surprised. It doesn't matter. _She_ was the one who wanted it kept quiet, not me."

"Isabela didn't want _us_ to know she caused a pre-dawn brawl in the Lowtown markets?" Wil does nothing to level her disbelief. "Do you have any idea how often she shows up with the blood still wet on her daggers and her pockets full of _loot_?"

It's not a wince that wrinkles Aveline's forehead, but it's close. She's not verbally opposed Wil's friendship with the pirate, choosing to target Varric's tendency to drag Wil into it instead. Nor has she mentioned in any _direct_ way what she thinks about the two women's ongoing affair that, after a rather spectacular failure of the Hanged Man's soundproofing, had been made an _undeniable_ fact one month earlier.

But it's clear she doesn't approve, not because of any moral reasons but because Isabela is, in her own words, _trouble_ and Wil doesn't really need to be _sleeping_ with trouble, on top of all the crooks, apostates and escaped slave hobos she keeps in her life.

"She knew you'd try to get her out," Aveline's armor harness creaks faintly as she shifts in her chair. "Apparently she has plans for her time in the brig-"

Wil eyes widen to a point that's possibly wider than she's ever made them, which is impressive considering how very many things she's done and seen that would cause such a reaction.

"She's in _prison_?" It comes out both low and squeaky and sudden onset nausea is not helping _at all_. "You..._imprisoned_ her. _Isabela_. _Friend_ Isabela."

"She broke the law, Hawke," Aveline stands in one strong motion, eyes narrowing. "And she's not _my_ friend."

This is true. Just like Fenris isn't Anders friend, and neither men seem to love Merrill. Aveline and Isabela are at odds with each other, even in a cosmic sense. Nothing about them lines up but _Wil_ and their mutual attachment to her. And their disdain for one another.

Disdain for Isabela's everything and thiefy hands and for Aveline's position and condemning frown. They are law and disorder and both wonderful and infuriating in turn.

"Hawke?" The edge of Varric's voice is concern. The rest is disbelief. "Are you...crying?"

She _is_ and she _isn't_. Just like she understands why Aveline would arrest Isabela, because Isabela is often times breaking the law which Aveline is sworn to uphold, but also understands why Isabela breaks the law...because she _can_ and it's _fun_ and sometimes even for a good cause.

_Usually_ for a good cause, when Wil does the breaking.

Also, there's that thing where _Isabela_ is in _prison_.

"Not crying," she blinks back tears, wipes away tears and frowns when her fingers come away wet as if they could be anything else. "Clearly."

"Clearly," he coughs. Varric has been known to do well in times like these, even if she can sense the hesitation in his comfort as he's not certain how the comfortee will respond. It's a test for him because those are moments where people are laid bare and Varric likes to think he has them there already, a storyteller's arrogance. One wrong touch and-

her hand jerks in memory, the brush of her palm along Isabela's unguarded hip and how it had grown warm over the span of minutes before being shaken off with the tiniest noise of _what the fuck, Hawke?_ and Wil snorted awake before rolling onto her stomach, embracing her bed because it had seen some rough nights and could probably use a hug

With this memory, the leaving and the empty satchel make sense. Less than that is the brawl and the brig, but Isabela always liked to take unexpected paths.

"So she stays?" Wil asks, composing herself and shoving aside a few of the feelings that have started to shift beneath her chest. Embarrassment, indignation, malaise, bemusement, panic and anger.

"She _broke the law_," this iteration is somehow less peeved. "But don't worry, it's only for a few weeks. And she seemed to think it could be a _good_ thing."

"Smart, Rivaini. Chatty inmates, chatty guards...you can learn a lot if you ask the right questions, drop the right names and have something to offer," Varric muses. "And she knows how to handle herself."

"And here I thought she was trying to con me out of a sentence."

"That's a possibility, too," he couldn't sound more proud. "She likes to keep her options open. Hawke?"

_Hawke?_ is _Are we done here?_ He's comfortable enough with this outcome to get on to the next item of business.

She nods. "I'll probably stay a bit longer...catch up with Aveline if she'll have me."

"Then I guess it's time for me to make a token visit to the Merchant's Guild," his voice is suddenly much raspier, as if he's on the edge of a coughing fit or in desperate need of water. "Let them know the air up in the Vimmark Mountains isn't as good for my health as I'd hoped."

The responses earned from the two women he leaves behind say everything.

Aveline's eyes lift towards the ceiling. Wil laughs at her friend's temerity, of his willingness to play the suspicious again and again and his ability to never suffer for his lies.

Whether it's luck or charm, or an unfair abundance of both, she doesn't know.

"I might make it down to the Hanged Man this evening," she ignores Aveline's pointed glare. "Might lose at cards a few times and fall asleep under your table. So the normal Tuesday routine."

His throaty chuckle as he passes out of Aveline's office agrees and Wil is left with a frustrated Aveline, worn down past any Aveline Wil's known and apparently drowning in paperwork.

"Bad day at the office?" Wil raises her eyebrows, expressing concern now that the captain is free to speak. She expects anger, or even an outburst like Anders' the evening before, only on the nature of entitlement and _laws aren't arbitrary, you know, and it's not fair for your friends to compromise me when I'm doing my job_.

Instead Aveline snorts, the narrow line of her lips relaxing and her shoulders sagging slightly as she takes a seat on the edge of her desk.

"You don't want to know. The past few weeks have been...tense, to say the least. The knight-commander seems to think we're not doing enough to crack down on the apostate problem-"

"As if apostates are vermin?" It's said like a joke, but the venom in Wil's words burns her own throat. "Maybe you should try putting out little pots of poison and labeling them _freedom_. That might catch a few of the more desperate ones."

Aveline ignores her invitation to fight, although there's a detectable flicker of _not this, too_ across her features. "And word from my guard around the qunari compound is that the situation there is growing tense. Although I don't know how one can tell, exactly. They're starting to get worried, though. My men, that is. I've doubled patrols in areas where the qunari have been spotted and a few have quit out of concern for their safety. But we've managed," pride flashes through the words. "With no extra funds requested and no accidents or harm to our ranks."

Her chin goes up, a ghost of a smile twitching at the corners of her mouth and despite their differences, Wil loves this Aveline. This _no matter how bad shit gets, I stay awesome _Aveline.

"I honestly don't know how you do it," Wil leans against the wall. "I _thought_ I did. I think the past three years have proven me wrong."

"You weren't wrong," it's not a pity response, or from a friend to a friend. It's honest, brusque. An observant Captain of the Guard bolstering a comrade fallen on self-doubt. "You just need to find some permanency. Maybe petition the Viscount for your title and get more involved in the politics here. We don't agree on everything, but you're smart and I trust you to do mostly good. Why not make a career out of it?"

_Nobility? Ah, no._

"Please, Aveline. _More_ responsibility? I stay unimportant because it's comfortable," she smiles to hide the sharp fear..._is it fear? Or is it just deep discomfort at the notion of being one of them?_ "Less pressure."

If Aveline notices the gap between Wil's smartass tone and the quiet panic beneath that pushes them out too quickly, doesn't let on and it's almost as if Hawke's become as good at subterfuge as Tethras.

"At any rate, I'd be getting back into a routine," she nods towards Wil's plain clothes and the single dragonbone dagger she carries at her hip. "Summer's coming fast and things are getting close to boiling _already_."

"Oh, just say it," Wil smirks, delighted at the implications of Aveline's evasiveness even as she tucks away the rest to be mulled over at a later time.

"If you want me to say that Kirkwall needs your skinny ass, _no_," her eyes narrow thoughtfully. "But I know I wouldn't sleep any worse at night if I thought you were around."

"With a big, fuck-off sword?"

"With a big..._sword_," a full-fledge smile breaks across the captain's pale freckled face or the first time all afternoon. "I can say yes to _that_, at least."

* * *

><p>The Hanged Man is back in order although the arrangement of the tables is off just enough to be disconcerting. Wil wonders if she'd have the same reaction were she to wander into her own home to find Leandra or Bodahn had moved the furniture in the parlor.<p>

She doubts it.

Varric is on the floor, surrounded by men she doesn't know. It happens sometimes and when he sees her, his back to the wall and his eyes aimed at the door, he offers an apologetic shrug and a summoning wave.

His friends for the evening eye her with interest. They're strangers, most of them scarred but not poorly turned out. Probably traveling merchants, the sort who act as their own caravan guards, and men who are accustomed to women like her in bars such as this jumping to warm their laps and their beds. She shoves up her sleeves and leans over Varric so they can see the dagger at her right hip.

Her eyes when they meet his are _I will not hesitate to show them what_.

"You're late," he observes coolly, no doubt trying to project an air of mystery around her. This is how he addresses the randoms who flit in while he's with her or the group. He has his business ventures, his personal ventures, and his fixing the shit that Bartrand screwed up ventures.

To Wil's knowledge, she's his favorite venture despite not fitting comfortably into any single category. _Maybe he has a messy-haired woman venture. Who knows with him._

"I had some things to take care of," _things_, vague. The men need not know that she was shopping for sweets for her mother and a new collar for her dog. "You know..._things_."

"Blondie's in the back, working," his expression remains neutral, but his eyes gleam. The back is where Varric keeps his press. "Edwina has something for you at the bar."

He turns back to the game; transaction over.

She's neither important nor unimportant. Just someone he knows who for indiscernible reasons.

Edwina's _something_ is a tray of food and cider. There is a large bowl of stew for Anders and a smaller bowl of tomato soup for Wil and bread and butter and a wedge of cheese for them to share nestled between them.

Wil slips the cheese to the edge of the tray, just next to her bowl, and carefully balances the wooden slab across her palms before taking it back through the small kitchen, where she ignores making eye contact with anything that might scare her off dinner, and down a half-flight of stairs to a doorway that she must duck to enter.

The back room is, like Varric's quarters, kept far cleaner than the tavern proper. Anders has done his best to reclaim the fastidiousness in his own disordered name, vellum and boxes of moveable type littering every free surface and his hands and face and tunic smudged with ink. Still, despite the mess and frustrated way he's pocking at the press, there's something in his posture and his eyes that speaks of unfathomable amounts of pride.

"I have dinner," she sets the tray down, knowing that it will be forgotten. It's fine, not eating. Before she'd seen him, she could have eaten everything on the tray and had room for a few pilfered sweets from the box she'd bought for Leandra. But now it's not hunger but memories that bothers her stomach, memories of skin of scent of the softness of hair in intimate places and curiosity at how it would feel to press her nose where her fingers had gone the evening before, to wrap her arms around him from behind and just breathe him.

_Oh, no._

"What are you printing?" It's not wavy or overwhelmed or anything like how she feels, suddenly and damnably. "And how much trouble is Varric going to get into?"

He glances up from his task, contentment touching his features as if he's walked through a shaft of warm light and then turning back to an almost bemused sort of perplexed.

"Something I wrote last night, this morning. Today," he gasps out a laugh. "Muriel could handle the clinic and I was too distracted."

She doesn't ask _why_. It would be presumptuous and she knows that whatever had happened to cause him to seek her out, to explode the way he had, was the far more likely distraction.

"And I'll be clipping the corners of the pages," he continues, answering her second question. "Varric has enough typefaces to keep from being traced that way, so as long as there's no other marks they won't be able to prove anything."

He offers her a stack of the manifestos and she keeps her hands out for the scissors. On every page is a small insignia in the lower right corner, _KFM_ followed by three dots in a vertical line. Any citizen could own a printing press, but only those licensed by their city could legally distribute printed materials in the Free Marches and those licenses were for the _right_ only. Any who held one was subject to an entire litany of rules and laws regarding the content of their publications and their presses were altered so that their assigned mark would appear on every document produced.

"How many are you printing?" She makes the first four cuts, unconcerned with symmetry. The paper is too thick and the shears too dull for artistry.

"A few dozen," he pulls a fresh sheet off and sets it aside to dry. "Maybe fifty? I figure I'd leave them around the markets, and keep a few for my clinic."

"I'll take a dozen," Wil finishes the third and fourth. "The Chantry could use some decent reading material...or I _assume_ it's decent." She fingers the paper, eyes hesitating at the margins. "Can I read it?"

He's smiling in that way that means he doesn't know he's smiling and that makes it even more difficult for her to actually look at what he's written.

"Since you're willing to risk your life to help me distribute it, it would be unfair for me to refuse," it's light and his eyes stay on her, expectant, and there's no way she can _not_ read it, with him watching her like that.

_All men are the Work of our Maker's hands; those who bring harm Without provocation to the least of His children Are hated and accursed by the Maker.-Transfigurations 1:3 _

_We are taught these things as children, to engender compassion for one another, for our neighbors and those we will never meet. It is the foundation of morality, black and white and inarguable. We are all the Work of our Maker's hands, for all that Is is of the Maker, and yet there are those who are not granted the same freedom from harm, those who are viewed as accursed by their existence, despite being as much the product of His hand and His care as any other of his children. They are no different at their core than any other, they are flesh and blood, thought and hope. When they hunger it is sated by food, their hearts touched and wounded by the same kindnesses and tragedies. They breathe air, they eat too much, they are foolish and wise, shallow and thoughtful and normal save one difference, one small aspect of what they are that becomes who they are, who they will always be. Dangerous, even as children. Unworthy of love, despite being born from it. Harmed, despite the right of birth that should protect __all__._

_So as you teach your children that all men are the work of our Maker's hands, think about those that are hidden, those that are denied the grace of her brothers and the compassion of his sisters. Think of those that are taught to be ashamed of themselves for __what__ they are that becomes who they are, and wander how it is just, and wander what could be in a world where all of the Maker's children are truly equal, a world where every gift bestowed upon any of us could be used towards something better, something beautiful and free from the most basic of harms against humanity:_

_Unjust imprisonment and the subjugation of those deemed guilty before they can choose to remain innocent._

And this time it's impossible to ignore the tears that spill down her cheeks, that burn the edges of her eyes and sting a slick path to her neck. They're tears for a solid lump of anger that has formed in her throat, tears for the furious calamity of her heart as it responds to every word, lifted somehow from where it's been for years, beating for the loss of purpose as Bethany is gone, Malcolm is gone. Merrill too independent and Anders...

He's come to settle beside her, space between them that he covers easily enough with the tilt of his broad shoulders and one long leg that bumps against her own even as his fingers can't quite make the commitment.

"There's a couple of typos," she sobs, the words meant to defuse her the way she'd defused herself the night before are choking because _fuck typos_ when the core of what she holds in her hands is what needs to be heard and accepted by everyone _ever_. Even if the Maker is just some jackass with an excellent spokesperson, the sentiment is so _on_. "I could help you next time?"

It comes out borderline incomprehensible and when she forces what is certain to be a ghastly smile he laughs to break the tension that's just there, as solid as the whatever it is in her throat, and as warm as a hand on her knee or hip or arms around another's neck.

"Do you even know how to write?" He's teasing, his expression heartbreakingly pleased with this reaction even though she can see pain there, too. "I mean, besides Chantry smut."

"Yeah, I think so," she brushes aside tears with the back of her hand, suppressing a quiet groan when she sees it's smeared in green. "It can't be _that_ different, can it? It's all about _inflaming passions._"

A dangerous joke to make, considering how Justice usually responds to her seeming irreverence that even Anders is sometimes hard-pressed to swallow.

But the ghost of happiness remains in the sweet tilt of his mouth and the gleam of his warm eyes. "As long as you promise to not to get confused and start adding _turgid members_ to everything."

"I wouldn't dare," she catches herself between flirtatiousness and sincerity. "They're fantastic and everything, but they don't exactly make a compelling argument for the rights of mages," her hand finds its way across his thigh to tuck itself neatly against his knee, testing something that shouldn't be tested. "This makes me think of how much better things could be for everyone, and I can't help but envision what life would have been like for _my_ family, had someone like you come along sooner."

Silence is still around them until his fingers begin sliding along her forearm, the smooth pads barely touching the sensitive skin on the inside of her wrist, and she tenses for physical removal, a silent but unquestionable sign that she'd crossed the line.

Instead he traces, instead he moves in small circles and sweeping arcs to cast a spell that requires no magic beyond touch and that changes nothing save the way in which she sees him.

Because he's no longer just her healer, or someone who'd save almost anyone if he could and _does_. He's no longer even the person who'd kept her from having to kill her own sister, the bottomless doubt she has about _that_ decision never once spilling or spreading onto him. He's no longer a confusing stranger who appeared as if someone had been instructed to design a man that she'd find amusing and arresting and terribly, terribly tragic.

He's Anders, his long, slender fingers finally folding between her own and transferring ink smudges and warmth in unequal measure.

He's Anders, his thumb continuing to move along the unguarded curve of her hand even as he stares at it in anguish, perhaps jealousy, his teeth digging into his lower lip and concern knitting his brow while he wonders if he'll be able to stop himself before his thumb becomes his arm becomes his mouth becomes their legs and their bodies and the heat within them.

He's Anders, who knows he shouldn't accept these gestures of reassurance sincerely offered by someone who can't even be honest with herself. He knows, but he accepts anyway because there are still tears caught in her eyelashes and they're her promise to him, which had been made after a day of people who don't _need_ her as much as they want her to be around.

He's Anders and he is every night Bethany tried to cry herself to sleep because of magic, every tear Mina wiped from round pink cheeks while talking about a day when they would both be big and strong and swords and fireballs, untouchable, and when he brings himself to look he sees something optimistic and courageous within her. It's words he's written himself, a newborn hope for progress and something eventually _right_. Varric sees character, Aveline strength. Isabela sees surface and what's in it for her, but Anders sees someone who believes in him. In who he is and _what_ he is.

Or he sees someone who understands the magnitude of his cause, at least, and who is getting _close_ to understanding something more.

He pulls away and she withdraws, too.

_Close._

"Aveline says it's going to be a hot one," she squints at her hands, which are folded neatly around her knees.

"She's probably right," he gathers the few pages he's copied and leaves them in his seat as he returns to the press. "We'll need to be ready."

_We will be_, fingers curl slightly, muscle memory guiding them around a phantom hilt. _Me and my big, fuck-off sword riding in to save the day._

It's ridiculous, but slightly less so than it would have seemed the night before.

* * *

><p>Note from SF: Uh...no real excuses for this delay besides busy and Skyrim and mass amounts of writer's block. Hopefully this won't happen again!<p> 


	12. For Kirkwall

She walks in weighted air, movements deliberately measured.

Light tumbles in through the high windows, golden warm and spilling across the stone and red wool of the Viscount's Keep and turning everything it touches richer to behold.

It fits the lords and ladies, those in their summer costumes as they await an audience with the Viscount or who simply wish to see and be seen, to partake of idle gossip out of the harsh sunlight and in a place where they can be certain that their inane conversations will remain uninterrupted by beggars or thieves or even the dreary sight of the lower class as they schlep items for trade, or items traded for, between their already unbearable hovels and the crowded, steaming market place.

Wilhelmina Hawke actually belongs with _them_ today, the elite. She walks in weighted air rather than cutting past with her usual lope. Her face is straight, her gaze forward and she offers no half-smiles or appreciative glances to any of the women or men who pause their talk to appreciate _her_.

She wears an _unbearable_ amount of finery and they recognize themselves in the polish of her ceremonial armor, the rich colors of her tunic. None of them know the weight of a cuirass, how it feels to bind even small breasts to fit uncomfortably snug. None of them have navigated the stairs to the Viscount's office in full plate greaves, the slightly awkward gait making it difficult to feel anything but graceless regardless of how one actually appears.

Although some have met her, have seen her in the market or at the few parties she's been forced to attend, none of them know what she is, what she thinks, or why she's here. But they know _of_ her and already there are rumors about this visit, about the way she's able to march past the lot of them and directly into the Viscount's offices without so much as an "And you are...?" to slow her.

She would have preferred to stumble in, of course. Maybe still a little drunk or, even better, recently up from the clinic and covered in refugee blood. A blight on their place of power, of their space that is free from reality save the occasional guard who comes in bearing marks of a scuffle or an outright attack.

Unfortunately, Leandra had answered the door when the Viscount's messenger had come calling and there'd been no hope for Wil to downplay it once her mother found out.

Which is why, when she steps into the Viscount's office, she's wearing her best armor. Never mind that it's heavy, restrictive and would probably get her killed in an actual fight because her arms have no range of motion and she could be flanked by an ogre without knowing so vast are the blind spots. Never mind that it's a shade of blue that just does not work on her and has its own banner and gold cording.

Never mind that she feels slightly ridiculous, as if she's a child playing dress up.

This sense of inadequacy, of faking it, is reflected back in Seneschal Bran's expression when his gaze falls on her. He manages to go from fussing about the Qunari in that hard to parse drawl of his to appearing as if someone in the room has just passed gas and he's trying his best to ignore it.

And failing. All rolling eyes and overdrawn sighs.

_Who let _you_ in?_

The Viscount offers a more subtle response. It's not relief, as this is not a time for such, but he appears to relax more in her presence once Bran is dismissed, a scowl touching the seneschal's lips as he offers one last reproachful glare that's almost louder than the orange silk blouse he's wearing.

_Catty, Wil._ Her gaze falls on the Viscount's desk. She can't pretend to not be nervous here, especially not when she sees three things on the desk that should worry her. One is a piece of parchment, the edges unevenly nicked as if done so by hand. Beside that is the Amell family ledger and an unfurled scroll bearing an angular mark she can't quite place.

"Sometimes stepping down seems the sane thing," Viscount Dumar blinks at her, his eyes so much like Saemus' in their watery blueness despite the elder's lack of passion. "If the mages and templars aren't the death of me, the Qunari will gladly do the job."

It's familiar in a way that Wil hasn't experienced in a while. In the days before the expedition, it was nothing unusual to have complete strangers accost her telling tales of unimaginable woe with the expectation that _she_ could fix _anything_.

She hopes the Viscount isn't expecting her to _fix_ anything.

"Meredith at my throat, Orsino at my heels, and a city scared of heretical giants," his tone has regained its professional gravity. "Balance is maintained by a lack of demand. Even the space in Lowtown was a _gift_ to contain them. But now the Arishok has requested _you_." Eyes narrow. "_By name_. What did you do?"

_The usual. I let my friend do most of the talking and then behaved in a dangerously disrespectful manner._

"I can't help it if I'm memorable," she flashes a toothy grin.

His face relaxes in recognition of her smartassery.

"Hmm. I know you helped my son, and he continues to speak fondly of you. It seems you are meant to have influence above your station," fingers drum on the corner of his desk as he's no doubt considering what he's about to do...place his trust in the diplomatic strengths of a woman he knows to be anything _but_ diplomatic. "Speak to the Arishok. Appease him to keep the peace. Can you do that for Kirkwall, Serah Hawke?"

For Kirkwall? Kirkwall is the city that wears its history of slavery and its current commitment to subjugation like a badge.

For Kirkwall, where those working for her betterment are among her favorite faces.

_Well, here goes._ "Any ideas what I can expect?"

"None," his eyes widen with bafflement. "I don't think I've heard two direct words from the Arishok. Well, besides a rather deliberate phrasing of _begone_. If you think his asking _me_ to notify _you_ of this is strange, well, you would be right."

"Transparency, perhaps?" Wil shrugs. "Or to deliberately make you nervous. I mean, the Qunari usually arrive as conquerors. It's odd that they've been _waiting_ for so long."

_Odd_ is an understatement in the Viscount's eyes. "_Very_. I have no interest in antagonizing them, serah. That is partially why I suffer being a messenger today," the bitter edge to his voice betrays a petulance that she's seen his very son exhibit more than once. "A treaty exists and it has been honored. Although..."

"You have doubts?" Her eyebrows raise as the already tattered remains of propriety turns to dust.

"The claim that they're waiting for a second ship wears a bit untrue after _three_ years." For a moment the impacts of those three years show itself on his face, lines and anger and resignation aging him past a desired end. The toll of his role as _appeaser_ is brief, but haunting. "They want something else."

_And he thinks _I_ can find out what that is. For _Kirkwall_._

Wil blinks at the mocking tone of her own thoughts, forcing herself to see Aveline behind her desk as she coordinates the guard, Anders in his clinic as the latest flu outbreak keeps him on the sleepless, starving edge of sniffling chaos, Lirene going over her books to show how the fortunes of most of the remaining Fereldan refugees are stabilizing with her continued aid.

"Well, I'm always willing to assist," it comes out falteringly. "Usually. In this case..._yes_."

"_That_ is an attitude this city has lacked for a long time," he murmurs, apparently oblivious to the existence of those that Wil finds to be so much inspiration. "Appease him, serah," it's the second time that word has been handed to her as an order. "Take his demand and let him return to dormancy. As..._awkward_ as this has been, it is better than the alternative."

_War_ is the alternative. Violence at the least. Wil has fought enough Tal'Vashoth to know that the odds of Kirkwall standing against an onslaught aren't impossible, but the damage would be catastrophic.

Like Ostagar, like Lothering. Another home fallen and who knows how many innocents lost.

She's out of the Viscount's office before she realizes it, people staring openly as she marches out.

Saemus is beyond the crowd, propped indolently against railing, and his eyes meet her own in understanding-

He understands scrutiny that has not been requested, scrutiny that comes from being born to a certain person, or being in a certain place at a certain time.

-and defiance.

He must be aware of the growing tension, of the unknown and unknowable pressure being placed on his father by the Arishok's continued existence in Kirkwall and somewhere within him he sees it as reason, as needed. Perhaps even salvation.

_For Kirkwall._

* * *

><p>"Boiling in oil," Anders leans his cheek against his palm and flicks at the pile of cheese rinds that sit in front of him, the only remaining scraps of what was, if the pile of bowls is any indication, a substantial lunch. Then he rolls his eyes up into his head. "Just imagine it. Augh! The burning!"<p>

Varric chuckles from where he's sitting on the edge of his bed, polishing Bianca. "Too..._prosaic_. We need something he'll remember, so to speak. Oh! Trapped in a cave with hungry bears, right at the spring thaw."

Wil takes her usual seat beside Anders, curious but unwilling to break their back and forth.

"Hungry bears? C'mon, Varric. That lets him off too easy," the left side of his face scrunches in thought. "How about this- dipped in molten gold and left as a statue in the Viscount's Keep."

Varric considers it, his lower lip caught beneath the edge of his teeth and his hand paused on Bianca's stock. "Ooh. That's poetic. I like it. They can stick him outside of the auditor's office. The worst place in Kirkwall."

The smug little grin that tilts Anders' lips as he revels in this victory is bumping up against the bounds of _too_ adorable.

"I...," Wil's gaze darts between them, an effort when that adorable grin is aimed right at her. "What are you two talking about?"

Despite the warmth of his chuckle, Varric's voice is edged in of malice. "What to do to Bartrand when I find him."

Not _if_, _when_. Though other things have taken his focus, Bartrand remains a blight on Varric's existence, and as more than just the _betrayer_.

"You have just as much of a reason to hate him as Varric," Anders is sympathetic. "Any suggestions?"

Eyes widening in a show of _oh, the possibilities_, Wil knows that she really shouldn't tread down this road. Bartrand had wronged them, yes. Bethany might be with her today had he not left them to rot in the Deep Roads. But Bethany might also be in the Gallows, or Tranquil. Just because her becoming a Grey Warden seems like the worst fate doesn't mean that it _is_ and that bit of perspective is how Wil's handling the still deafening silence on her sister's behalf and turning Bartrand into the villain in her life would undermine those efforts.

But Varric deserves the fantasies.

"How about we send him on a diplomatic mission to the Qunari compound?" She sinks into her chair, the enormity of her task seeming impossibly daunting now that she's resumed her place in Lowtown.

"Bartrand the diplomat," Bianca is set aside so Varric can temple his fingers beneath his chin and assume his best Bartrand scowl. "Sodding ox-men calling all the shots and I thought the _doglords_ were a pain in my ass."

"I can see it going over beautifully," Anders remains in strangely good spirits."They'd have him muzzled in no time."

"Maybe not," Wil interjects, tugging at the edge of her tunic for distraction. She's changed since her earlier visit to the Viscount. The plain plate armor she wears is practical and far more comfortable than the portable tank she'd worn earlier, but she's afraid that it might steal any sort of intimidating edge she might have. _Humans_ have a tendency to underestimate her unless she's covered in blood and approaching them with the exposed edge of a equally gory blade and she's yet to meet a Qunari who didn't assess her with a subtle quirk of surprise at the corner of otherwise immobile brows. "They seem to endure my particular brand of..."

"Let's call it irreverence," Fenris speaks from the doorway and not even the familiarity of his tone is enough to dim Anders' mood. "Do not be mistaken, Hawke. The Arishok is no doubt more interested in your standing than he is how you treat him."

"Wait...did I miss something?" Varric's head inclines in confusion as it only now occurs to him that there might be more to Wil's visit than her ability to sense Anders' presence in the Hanged Man.

Fenris shrugs it off to her. "I will be at the compound, Hawke."

He slips out on silent feet, moving quickly for someone who appears so overburdened by weaponry.

"Hawke?" Varric's up and securing Bianca to his back. Even without her telling him the specifics, his crossbow is a required accessory.

"Guess who's been asked to undertake a diplomatic mission to the Qunari compound?" She gives the two remaining men the biggest smile she can, going so far as to lift her eyebrows in faux excitement. "Yaaaaay."

Varric and Anders exchange a look. It's not a why _the fuck would anyone...her?_ look. They both respect her too much for that. It's more of a why _the fuck would she say yes?_

"The Arishok requested me," she stands with a flourish of feigned arrogance."By _name_."

"He knows your name?" Anders is somewhere between concerned and deeply impressed. "I just assumed they categorized us based on hair color or height or something arbitrary."

"What can I say? I'm special," she coughs politely to undercut this assertion, although the way Anders' expression momentarily softens in agreement makes it feel slightly more true.

"You're something, Hawke," Varric is already thinking ahead to the next chapter. "I don't know if diplomatic is a word _I'd_ ever use to describe you, but I can think of fewer things more amusing than watching you try."

"Just don't get yourself killed," Anders bumps his staff against her shoulder. "Or muzzled."

"Or get _us_ killed, or muzzled," Varric winces. "It puts a damper on my storytelling, see."

"And the story is the most important part!" Thinking of it in those terms _does_ lessen the sudden pressure that's decided to assert itself on Wil's stomach as they move from the safety of the Hanged Man towards the relative unknown of what the Arishok might demand of her. "I'll try to make it entertaining. For _you_."

They share a quick smile and _for you_ is far more palatable than _for Kirkwall_.

* * *

><p>Fenris leans against the wall just outside of the Qunari compound, arms folded across his chest and eyes intense through the fall of white that nearly obscures them. It's a position he holds even when Wil joins him, mimicking his stance down to the scowl that haunts his lips.<p>

"Got anything?" Her voice is deliberately low. There are two Qunari who guard the entrance to the compound and the first is already watching her with a disconcerting amount of intensity, which seems a good indication of what she has to look forward to.

The elf hesitates, his head turning sharply towards where Anders and Varric are standing, arguing now about the ethics of placing wagers on the potential any given situation has to erupt in violent bloodshed.

"They should keep their voices down," his gaze tilts back to Wil. "Although I have not heard anything that would indicate they possess ill intent," the pause that follows lasts a few seconds too long. "Today."

_Awesome_. A breeze blows in off the harbor, whipping at the dust that's settled along the stone walkways and ruining what might have otherwise been a pleasant respite from the sun that bears down with uncharacteristic ferocity. Of course here, where everything is pale stone and reflective, the heat is so much more that it's almost a relief to duck into the shaded alley that leads towards the Qunari compound.

They are, of course, almost immediately stopped by the first kossith they see, one arm going out not to _block_ their passage but to _discourage_ it.

"You are Hawke," it's less accusatory than _most_ say it. "A patrol went missing along the Wounded Coast. The Arishok says you have some semblance of honor. So tell me, did you kill them?"

The sharpness of Wil's surprise gets echoed in the click of Varric's tongue against his teeth. Kossith are direct when it serves them to be so and no doubt her reaction does as much to satisfy the query as her actual response.

"Oh, come _on_. I can't be your _only_ suspect," she gives him her best_ let's get real for a moment_ expression. "There's Coterie, Carta, templars- take your pick."

She's at least smart enough to catch the _so many people want you dead_ that almost manages to leap off her tongue while visions of a sneering blonde Chantry sister dance in her head.

The kossith snorts in dismissal. "You think the bas in this city could fell a karataam? _Hardly_. _You_," his eyes narrow in what may be respect. _Almost_. "You are another matter. But if you are not responsible, I waste my time here."

And that's it. She's waved along to the gate where a second guard stands, the subtle lift of his upper lip indicating _he_ is not nearly as inclined to treat her as someone with honor, although he dutifully opens the way for her and her companions.

"Head directly to the Arishok, Hawke," Fenris keeps beside her and she swears that there might be concern mingled with the customary disinterest.

"Because I was going to give myself a tour?" She hisses back, painfully aware of solid wall of muscle and war-paint and huge _throwy_ weapons that flanks them as they approach the Arishok's reception area.

Much has changed since the last time she'd been here, three years of waiting evident in the way the canvas tents, once decorated with utilitarian symbols of rank, have turned uniform shades of sun-bleached yellow. They sag on their poles and the animal hide mats placed in front of each have been trampled down to scraps of fur that cling to purpose with a stubbornness that is fitting here. Even the kossith betray signs of restlessness in the way they divorce themselves from their tasks to follow her progress.

They'd not been so curious three years ago.

Her chin moves so it's level. Not _lifted_ like the ladies in Hightown. Just level. Her eyes are direct and her gait natural. Beside her, Fenris stretches his shoulders back and coughs, almost politely. This focused, she catches the undeniable scent of ozone on the breeze that should only smell of the sea, of warriors and of impatience.

That last could be produced by the Arishok in buckets, she's certain. He's watching her approach, hunched on his low bench, intimidating in his sheer size, the hard set of his angular features, and the controlled way he works his fingers against his knee in consideration of the bas whom he's summoned.

"Hold," they're commanded by a personal guard.

Wil takes one last step forward in what might be the tiniest show of defiance ever and once again she's met with disdain from the kossith that surrounds him but does not show in the Arishok's expression, nor resonate in his voice when he greets her.

"Serah Hawke," despite the neutrality of his tone, his use of the title is...discomfiting, but the _burn_ of dread that comes with her name being spoken by him, on his funny little throne in his shabby compound and his face so deadly serious, is what takes her breath away.

But it's only for a moment and when she responds with an _unintentionally_ sarcastic, "Yeeeeees?" she gets the sense that it's nothing less than what he'd been expecting.

"Three years ago, I did not know your name. Did not care to," it's neither insult nor condemnation. Just fact. He leans forward, already driving at the point of this meeting. "You have changed your fortune over the years. The Qunari have not."

_Ah-ha._ Somehow _she's_ become the standard by which he is measuring his own progress in Kirkwall. They had arrived at almost the same time, and under similar duress, after all. That she had succeeded where he had failed, _escape_, means that either she is special or the kossith are somehow incompetent. _I'm _not_ surprised they went with the former._

"I offer a courtesy, Hawke," he interrupts her thoughts, brusque. "Someone has stolen what he thinks is the formula for gaatlok. You will _want_ to hunt him."

A hiss sounds from behind her; Anders, probably. While her face remains blank, mouth a straight line and eyes purposefully dead, inside it's almost as if that gaatlok has been used to assault her stomach; the potential for Bad Things to come of this is huge and the implications of what _actually_ happened might be even more so.

"Gaatlok...you mean explosive powder?" Wil frowns. "Sounds like _quite_ the feat."

"It was allowed," the Arishok explains, his voice flattening implication to truth. "The stolen formula was a decoy. Saar-qamek, a poison gas, not explosives. A small amount is dangerous to your kind. But if made in quantity, perhaps by someone intending to sell it..."

"Javaris Tintop," just saying his _name_ makes her feel disreputable.

The Arishok is visibly..._something_ that she's made the same connection.

"Would he be cautious, or would he assume success and make enough to threaten a district?"

_Dammit, dammit, dammit._ She takes a breath, holding it while she shifts her weight to mask her hesitation, or at least make it seem less like quiet panic. _Dammit, dammit, dammit._

"So," _what the _actual_ fuck were you thinking?_ "You just leave the decoy laying around? Free to takers?"

Although his face remains impassive, there's slightly more heat in the Arishok's defense of their actions, "We did not make it easy. Three Qunari died defending it. Enough to impart a sense of worth," he leans forward, just so she knows. "If the real formula were at risk, the Qun would demand that we protect it to the last of us."

She recalls their last conversation, and Tintop's frustration at how closely the Qun were guarding their recipe and how clear it had become that they were not motivated by coin but _dominance_. Most of her small revelations had evaporated once they'd left the compound that day, but this reminder is an unsettling one in light of the conversation with Viscount Dumar about treaties and uncertainty.

Gold is not a concern, neither are resources. Although the compound clearly shows the passage of years and exposure to the elements, the kossith have maintained their arms and armor to perfect condition.

_It's almost as if they're just waiting for a reason...but why wouldn't they jump on this one?_ Her brow wrinkles as she tries for a few seconds longer to puzzle it out before giving up to ask outright. In a way.

"I hardly think I left an impression on you last time. Why ask for _me_, and why give this warning at all?"

She leaves out the part about replacing the recipe with something deadly when they could have used a recipe that's _not_ deadly. Like spinach artichoke dip, or some sort of soufflé.

The Arishok pauses for a moment, considering. A gust of wind buffets up from the docks, bringing with it the smell of fish and stone and he turns to face it, inhaling the air that has come from outside these walls, perhaps even from somewhere he'd rather be.

_Anywhere. He'd clearly rather be anywhere but Kirkwall. _

The breath from elsewhere fuels the undercurrent of annoyance in his response. "You are capable, but I have yet to decide if you are capable of understanding," he glares down his nose at her, perhaps angry at the uncertainty that she represents. "Save your streets from this fool dwarf. Then we will talk. Or not. It will be interesting to see if you die."

_Ass._

"Come on, Hawke," Fenris turns in place and allows urgency to seep into his voice. The bulk of the spectators have returned to their posts to watch them leave from a distance, but a few remain near the alley that will lead them back to the docks.

Despite wanting to offer the Arishok the sharpest edge of her tongue, Wil follows Fenris' lead, shepherding Varric and Anders, who seems to have taken the Arishok's parting words even more personally than she ever could, from the way his eyebrows have gone all sad puppy on her.

"So, Varric. Got a lead on Tintop?" She asks it quietly as they file out of the compound, the two guards who had greeted her staring over their heads as they pass. "And, lest I forget, we should be thinking of extravagant ways to punish _him_, too."

"They can _both_ be dipped in gold," Varric falls into step beside her, the speed of his gait causing his head to bob erratically at her elbow. "I heard about a sell-off. Merchant territories and a bunch of stuff even I barely understand. They don't do that unless someone left in a hurry," he slips into speculation mode. "I'd have figured he rooked some noble. He's _sure_ not a burglar."

"Of course not. That would require getting his hands dirty," she spits, allowing herself to become flush with anger that he could be so recklessly _greedy_. "Just tell me where he is."

Varric shrugs, his expression gone apologetic. "Once I was satisfied he'd not be haunting you, I stopped asking about the squirt. I'd suggest the Coterie."

"Ah, the _Coterie_," Wil breathes it in like fresh air. "Well I _am_ in the mood to get cut."

"You never know, Hawke," Varric bumps against her and gives her a reassuring smirk. "Chances are good that he's pissed _them_ off, too. He has that way about him."

* * *

><p>Javaris Tintop, to his credit, can keep his sense of humor in the midst of a crises.<p>

"Tell me something, Hawke. Are you _exploding_?" _This_ is his response to Wil's incredulity that he might not be the one she's after.

"It's hard to tell, actually," she runs her hand along her arm, taking with it the remains of a mercenary who'd been on the wrong end of Anders' walking bomb spell. Actually, she'd argue that both she _and_ the mercenary were on the wrong end. "But I suppose I'm not."

"_I_ _suppose I'm not_," he mimics, his voice going foppish. "Then I guess that means I don't have the sodding powder...doesn't it?"

Anders chuckles beside her. "It seems the obvious thief wasn't so obvious after all."

"True. Makes my job more difficult, though," she scowls at Javaris. "Do you at least _know_ who took it?"

"I doooooo," he touches his chin thoughtfully, glancing between Wil and Anders, then back to where Varric stands with Fenris. She can see his brain working, a light of shrewdness going on and she's about to punch him in the stupid beard face when Varric intercedes.

"You're seriously thinking about charging _Hawke_ for that information when you are up to your ass in your own dead bodyguards..." Varric's head is shaking in disbelief. "You have brass balls, son, and you deserve whatever Hawke chooses to do with them."

"You have a trophy case for those, don't you, Wil?" Anders chirps, oblivious to the cringe of cringeyness that has settled on her face at the idea of doing..._whatever_ with Javaris' balls.

"Blighted ancestors," Tintop stops them with an outstretched hand. "Fine, I'll tell you. I've got enough people who want me dead, and I'm clearly terrible at hiring guards-"

"Or maybe I'm just _awesome_ at killing them?" Her tone is arch.

"Dammit, girl, I'm giving you what you want. No need to torture me here," he growls. "I don't know her name, but she's an elf. A real nutcase type. Violent. Angry. _Insane_...she'd probably fit right in with _your_ little crew."

Wil had been thinking the same thing. Well, close to the same thing. But with more _affection_, genuinely fluffy feelings that made her want to turn and bury her face in Anders' pauldrons and stay there, sneaking peeks from time to time to see how well he was handling her proximity.

But those were her thoughts to have, because she loved her violent, angry, sometimes _yes_ insane friends, and those who weren't her or her friends simply were _not_ allowed to go there.

"Tell me something, Tintop," his name comes out so _crisp_, like the crack of a whip in stricken silence. "Are _you_ exploding?"

He hesitates, fear cornering his eyes. "Uh...not that I..._no_. I am not."

"Then I suggest you drop the commentary and tell me what I want to know," she smiles with teeth, "while I'm still of a mind to not do anything violent or angry or _perfectly justified_."

"So help me..._fine_. Sorry," he backs away, tripping over a body that sends him stumbling a few steps to the left and shaking out his arms as if he's covered in spiders. "They operate in Lowtown, that's all I know."

"That narrows things down," Fenris sniffs.

"Maybe we can ask around the bazaar. Chances are they needed to buy _something_ in bulk," Wil, refusing to give Javaris any amount of gratitude for doing the right thing when his life was at risk, begins jogging back towards the tunnel that will return them to Darktown. "The right questions and a little coin should be enough to get the merchants talking."

"And if _that_ doesn't work, the right questions being asked by a woman who is covered in merc intestines _will_," Anders keeps pace, brushing something off of her shoulder that leaves his face confused by a grimace that's almost as affectionate as her considerations of how intensely _special_ her friends are. In several senses of the word.

* * *

><p>In the end, it takes a tour around Lowtown, scrambling through dusk darkened corridors and fighting the occasional wave of bandits that think to delay their progress.<p>

Despite her devotion to the Hanged Man, it's been a while since Wil's had to deal with the tangle of the slums proper, of the narrow passageways and sudden dead ends. Lamplight and voices spill from windows above them, the shouts of women greeting their husbands newly arrived from a shift in the foundry or in the docks, the cries of children impatient for dinner and the mutts that howl in chorus. It smells better than the undercity, less fecal matter and more hearth and stone and humanity.

"_Why_ is there a chicken coop in the middle of the-," Fenris, who has been scouting ahead, stops and turns, his upper body edging back so that Varric and Wil can see that, indeed, there _is_ a chicken coop blocking their way forward and about twenty minutes of maze behind them.

"Not all of us live in a twenty-room mansion with a private garden," Anders catches up, his breath heavy. He'd stopped by the home of a someone whom he refused to name, a pale face glimpsed at the edge of a narrow door that had only been opened enough for Anders to pass something through. He smiles at Wil when he sees she's watching, a smile that she knows has become reflexive when he has something to hide. Whomever he was speaking to, it was in regards to the seemingly vast amount of business he keeps private. "The cities in Ferelden were always teeming with livestock."

"No wonder Lowtown always felt like home," Wil quips, looking past the coop at the alley beyond. There's a stoop about twenty yards down. "I bet you anything that we can get around if we go inside."

She turns back and tries the nearest door, which is cracked shades of rust and wideset and opens easily at her touch. Almost all of these buildings are like Gamlen's tenement, apartments tucked in the interior with hallways that ran the circumference. Once inside, she can see an almost clear shot to where the other door would be.

Almost clear, between them was a goat, an indolent creature chewing what appears to be grungy smallclothes. He stops long enough to assess the threat posed by a woman, a mage, an elf and a dwarf.

It's apparently not much, and it returns to its dinner, the soft grinding of teeth filling the silence of the corridor. Wil approaches, remembering the way the goats that they'd kept when she was younger would scramble away from strangers. This goat shifts so that he is ass and nose against the opposing walls, unimpressed by her size and unconcerned with her intent.

"I could deal with it for you," Fenris murmurs, the markings along his right palm flaring in the dimly lit hallway.

"By tearing his heart out?" Her brow raises in surprise. "I'd rather not. This could be someone's livelihood, after all. Assholish as he is."

Anders intercedes, coming up behind her to stand uncommonly close. When he speaks, his voice is at her ear, loud but light in its admonishment. "Normally you're good at this, too."

With his cryptic declaration, the air around the goat turns a foggy brown and within seconds it tilts sideways, eyes falling closed as it tumbles to the ground with the panties hanging from its askew mouth, caught on yellowed teeth.

"Magic," he announces, stepping around Wil and over the slumbering goat. "It's _useful_."

"Indeed," Fenris growls and follows him, Wil helping Varric not tread on the creature before she files out, too, spilling into the alleyway which seems miles from where they'd encountered the chicken coop.

"It's quieter here," she murmurs, listening for the sounds of normalcy that had seemed so immediate before. It's as if the corridor had transported them to another version of Kirkwall, one hushed with fear. "I think I preferred the cacophony."

They continue forward, quickly but with more care when turning corners or entering open squares and courtyards. None of them are familiar with this section of Lowtown, although Wil's certain that they're not _too_ far from the alienage. Depending on what Javaris' elf had in mind for the powder, she might very well have taken it to her homebase for crafting.

And what a fabulous outcome _that_ would be. An alienage wiped out due to the greed of one of its own. Wil's stomach turns at the thought of Merrill in her little house, sitting with a steaming mug of tea and a tome on Arlathan that weighed at least twice as much as she did. Reading and frowning and never noticing the seeping, noxious fumes until it was too late, until she was doubled over, coughing so hard that her breath could never be completely caught.

_Coughing._

Anders hears them first and pulls left, seizing her elbow and dragging her after. That's when she sees the huddled mass of people, the first in nearly twenty minutes. They're humans, all, surrounding a guard that she recognizes but cannot name.

"Stay back, I said!" His voice is edged in hysteria, the panic there proving that the situation had already gotten bad ahead of them. "I can't fight the damned air, and if _you_ want to live you'll go someplace else!"

"But my mother's in there!" A strident voice near the back pipes up, and a bald man elbows his way to the front of the crowd. "I should just let her die?"

With a single step back to resume space between himself and the angry man, the guard almost gives up his ground, the men around him ready to surge forward at the sign of weakness. Wil ducks between two dockworkers, positioning herself to block the guard from the restless mass, her hands up to appease them.

"Listen to him, boys!" Her eyes scan the group, seeing fear on the gathered faces, along with anger and concern. "Stay out," her voice is firm and remains so when she pushes past the guard, Anders, Fenris and Varric sailing along the edge of the protestors to join her. "Now if you'll excuse me, _I_ have air to fight."

"But," the guard sputters attempting to catch her as she marches ahead. "Messere Hawke!"

_This_ stops her. _How does _everyone_ in this city know who I am?_

"Maker. _Please_, Hawke. The street is death. There was a cloud that drove them mad, and now a seeping mist that kills," his voice wobbles. "All I can do is warn people. If someone like _you_ dies on my watch, I'm right stuffed."

She considers for a moment. Not whether or not to go ahead; _that's_ a given. She just wants to make certain that he doesn't get into it should she meet an untimely end.

"If something happens to me, tell the Captain that you warned me and my response was _I'll hold my breath_," Wil smirks. "There will be _no_ doubt then."

"But!" His arms flail helplessly as she walks away, and the last thing she hears him utter is an extremely put upon, "_Shit_."

It's funny, almost, and a nice thing to have as they turn the last corner.

"Andraste's flaming sword," Varric sounds almost reverent as they take in the curling plumes of green that twist along the stone path ahead of them. It's a fog, faded at the edges and the color of a ripe green apple at the densest sections.

"At least it's heavy," Fenris notes, his nose wrinkling as the odor like ammonia begins to grow stronger. "We can see over the top of it."

Wil nods, but is otherwise occupied with scanning the square. She knows why it was chosen- in the center is a water pump. Besides pipes that run water up from the bay to the purifier, there are lines that feed into the surrounding buildings. While only the lowest levels have access to the taps, every single dwelling would have a feed of some sort.

"It must be drawing from those barrels," Varric points to the closest one, which is almost all but consumed by the gas that pours out and down its curved sides. There are at least three more that Wil can see, spread around the edges of the square. All of them are opened and contributing to the cloud that is, despite Fenris' observation, rising by the minute.

A woman's scream echoes from the buildings around them and in the aftermath the rasping coughs grow almost deafening.

_Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit_, _dammit, dammit._

Anders pulls a wad of fabric out of his pocket. "Masks," he explains, throwing them at his companions. "They won't protect us for long, so we need to get moving if we're going to do this."

Fitting the wool swatch to cover her mouth and nose gives her a few seconds to think of how to do this, exactly, and she's just about to give orders when a black streak catches the corner of her eye.

_Fuck. This._ "Mercenaries?" It comes out muffled, but she can see the flash of understanding in Anders' eyes and the grave nod in response sends her heart directly to her feet. "You handle them while I close the barrels."

Fenris and Varric move immediately, but Anders hesitates, his brows drawn.

"It's most dangerous at the source, Wil."

As if she doesn't know.

"I'll hold my breath," she smiles a useless smile that only she knows exists and pushes past him towards the first target. For a few seconds that she spends fumbling with the rusted mechanism that's holding the dispersal tap open, she assumes that he's still where she left him, rooted and annoyed. Then she feels the crackle of magical energy on the air, the ozone scent of Justice welcome as Anders wields lightning to stagger the attacking mercenaries.

Her hands slip from the tab she's attempting to dislodge, the rough metal scraping at her gauntlets and the sound is irritatingly abrupt. Loud. She chuckles and she shouldn't. She panics and _that_ actually helps for once as the tab comes out and the entire mechanism collapses neatly down on itself, gas no longer able to draw out.

One down. She fights the urge to stay where the air is already clearing, her head swimming and her throat beginning to burn despite the mask that clings damply to her lips. Forcing herself, she darts to the closest barrel, sidestepping a fallen mercenary and trying not to check on her comrades as she goes for fear of becoming too invested or distracted from her task.

The second barrel is in worse shape than the first, the tab worn to a nub that's impossible for her to grab with her gauntleted hands. Anders could probably do it, but she has no idea where he is, probably somewhere within the gas _dancing_ and-

_Dammit. _

Her gauntlets are coming off, almost as if they're melting away, first the right and then the left which is caught halfway and requires teeth, which requires _masklessness_ and she just drops them when she's done, her attention on the barrel when it's not distracting her with the image of Anders and Justice, as if she knows what Justice looks like beneath Anders' flesh, dancing a close waltz.

The sound of the barrel hissing shut is such a surprise, as is the chuckle that burbles up when she hears Varric shouting her name _Hawke! Hawke! Hawke!_ over the deafening silence that has overwhelmed her.

_Move, Wilhelmina._ It's a small voice calling from beyond a veil of sinuous green and after only two steps forward the ground tilts beneath her, the world being such an asshole, as if it wants to shake her loose, to dump her into the sky to dine with the stars.

But there are no stars tonight and she's at another barrel, clinging with her face too close to the gas that no longer smells of anything. Sunshine, perhaps. Bethany would wear this like a gown.

"I would look damned good, too," her sister's voice is there. Right there, beside her and what used to be the most familiar and favorite thing has been gone for so long.

Wil whips around to see, to see dark eyes that love her and that aren't shadowed in death or doubt or fear or hatred and it's Anders, covered in blood and one hand on the back of her head while the other reaches up to replace the mask that was hanging uselessly against her chest.

"Not Bethany," her eyes ache with phantom tears, too dry to exist and too sharp to- "I think I'm losing my mind."

"Come here," he tugs her after him, his hands healer hands that have the perfect amount of _touch_. The magic that blossoms clears her head, as does being taken to a place in the square that isn't so fucking green. "_Breathe_, Mina."

He says it to comfort her, to calm and to claim.

She breathes. She sputters. She pulls away because she hears voices, and they're real this time. More mercenaries surrounding a blonde elf with the most gigantuan sword Wil has ever seen and it makes her jealous.

Which, strangely, clears her head even further, especially when the elf's eyes widen in recognition.

"Serah _Hawke_," she speaks like knives and when she approaches Wil can see the cracks in her face and the shadows painted there by the saar-qamek. "_You_ have enemies."

"And this is your fault, I presume," Wil's voice isn't its strongest; it sounds as if she's speaking into a tunnel and is hearing it after it's traveled down and echoed back.

"_Yes_," the elf nods, staggering towards Wil. "I'm glad it's you. These poor people never asked for any of this, but _you_ have. _You_ will be a much better target."

"Was there a meeting or something that I wasn't invited to?" She addresses Anders, the building behind him continuing to slide away well after her eyes meet his. When he can only shake his head, his lips moving in silence, she whips back to the elf, who is now closer and holding her amazing sword out like an offer that Wil would be foolish to decline. The blade wavers and gleams in an uncertain and weakening grip. "Before you stab me, why don't you explain your _particular_ brand of crazy."

"Hawke," and it is condemnation, for callousness in the face of someone clearly consumed by a desperation as poisonous as the gas that might kill hundreds of innocents, maybe more, if Wil doesn't stop her.

Wil, whose limbs are starting to feel like jam left out- sticky and loose and a little bit useless.

She giggles at the image and the elf just _snaps_.

"Qunari take my people! My siblings forget their culture, then go to the Qun for _purpose_. We're losing them twice!" The tip of the sword hits the ground, a clang that surprises them both. "So, I get help from _your_ people. We had a plan to make things right again. We'll take the Qunari thunder, make some accidents and make them hated!" The passion that has been rising like a bloodied fist of defiance falls as her voice loses its power and she is consumed by a flash of guilt, of confusion. "But this...this is all _wrong_."

"And not funny," Wil wants to laugh again, and cry, and cough until she cannot breathe and dream of a place where everyone is allowed to fucking _be_ with no pressure to _be_ anything in particular. "Just...sad. You were going to kill people anyway?"

But the elf is finished explaining, finished delaying the inevitable. Teeth bared, she waves forward the few remaining mercenaries who swarm past Wil to attack the men behind her.

**"**It can still work, their plan. They'll enrage the faithful, and make sure the Qunari are blamed!" The sword comes up, a final show of the strength, of conviction. "But I'm finished. I just need a few more bodies."

And it's Wil's that _she_ wants as she lunges forward, wielding her blade like a lance. Wil dodges, instincts sharp even if the rest of her is going upside down again, and the elf hits no resistance to stop her momentum, the landing giving way to sharp stone steps.

Just as the elf goes over, the gas having stolen whatever warrior's grace she'd possessed before, Wil reaches out, attempting to stop the plummet down but it's too late by inches and Anders has to then make certain Wil doesn't follow the elf into the weakening green, which now barely obscures the blood-slick stone beneath.

Wil doesn't fall, but she _does_ take a seat on the top step, putting her head beneath her knees to cough out more than just the effects of the gas. What has happened here, what is happening here, is unconscionable and Wil is completely fine with blaming the qunari and the zealots both.

But first, the people caught between them. They cough and wail and hover just inside windows above where she sits. She can see silhouettes watching and when one person falls, tumbling along the wall of his building to crumple into a boneless heap on the stone below, she waves Anders away.

"They need you."

"And you don't?"

"We can watch her, mage," Fenris and Varric approach, clearly battered but still masked. Their eyes contain none of the confusion that spins Wil's head.

"How are you three so fine?" She tugs at her mask and it hurts, which means she's actually tugging at her own cheek.

"Dwarven constitution."

"These markings are good for more than just fighting."

"I actually just held my breath," Anders smiles, despite the concern for not just her. "And at no point did I try to make out with a barrel of gas."

She laughs, and it's the right thing to do. And the wrong thing, because it feels as if a clamp has just been closed tight on her brain. All she wants to do is thank her friends before marching back to the Arishok to vent her immediate rage, to confront him with this tragedy that was _allowed_ to happen, but her head hurts and the ground refuses to stay in one place, so she just blacks out instead.

* * *

><p><strong>Note from SF:<strong> Update!

I would like to take this opportunity to once again thank everyone who reads and/or reviews! You guys are amazing and loyal and sometimes I wish I could reach through the internet and shake your hands or hug you or wave.

As I realize that this coming week will be busy for many, I'll probably not have another update until next week at the earliest. So I wish everyone happy holidays, if you celebrate, and more thanks and affection if you do not.


	13. Well, Fuck

**Previously, on Life and How to Live It:** Wilhelmina Hawke decided to deal with qunari poison the way she deals with most everything in her life, with an amazing lack of subtlety and a fair amount of violence.

* * *

><p><em>We run through winding stone hallways, our bare feet beatin g against stone floors.<em>

_Our way is lit first with torches and then with a hand held aloft, brilliant light spilling from fingertips. We stop so that I can feel them, warm to the touch as we have found a place for ourselves, limitless and safe, and light no longer needed. His hands grow warmer when they are dragged along my throat and gently down, a touch that goes deeper than muscle. I feel the steady ache of _push_ of _let me_ and of why _do we do this to ourselves?

_His breath is steady against my cheek, my lips, and I hold my own, knowing that this is a spell that will end in distance._

_And it does. No inner light or outer light to guide me and we're running again..._I_ am running again, alone save for the sound of voices that I cannot reach. They rise and fall, Mal's low rumble and Mother's cadence. Bethany murmurs and Carver bites his words off short sometimes and I need to reach them, to find where they are together without me, but the hallways are never ending and impossible to navigate without torches _

or magic

_to illuminate the path ahead. _

It is purest panic that wakes her.

Sweat and fire and a tightness in her chest that bring tears to her eyes.

"Wait!" The voice is familiar.

_Not alone...he's watching over me,_ the thought breaks against her skull but relief is not allowed. _Of course. _

"Hold still, Wil," his hands are cooler than in her dreams, pressed now to her cheeks as he attempts to calm her. "Most people _ease_ out of these things."

And it should help, the magic. _Him_. But there is something that's caught her, some hitherto untouched well of profound loss and loneliness that makes her worst moments since the Deep Roads seem positively _fantastic_.

"I liked it better when the gas just made me ridiculous," she mumbles, the words half-formed as Anders' face swims into view and that _does_ help. Seeing him. Her hand fumbles up to push through his hair. It's loose and she wants to pull him down to her mouth, which is a bad idea. She attempts to run her tongue over her teeth, cringing at the realization that they feel like moss covered stone. _The _worst_ idea. _

"_Wil_," he untangles himself from her grasp, although his fingers remain wrapped around hers longer than necessary. "You're fine. You just had a bad dream."

"A nightmare," she shivers and forces herself upright in a bed she realizes is not her own. Her eyes take in the vaulted ceiling, the faded velvet shades and the canopy of gathered cobwebs, some pushed aside but most left untouched and uninhabited. She hopes. "And it wasn't _all_ bad...why am I in Fenris' bedroom?"

Anders grimaces before offering a half-smile and she detects the lines at the corners of his eyes deepening in the candlelight. He's tired. Exhausted. Probably on the verge of dropping unconscious and she feels, not for the first time since she's met him, guilty and fortunate in equal measure.

"There wasn't room in the clinic, and apparently your manor has the only lock in the Free Marches that Varric can't pick or charm his way into."

"Isabela let herself in and walked in on Mother bathing one evening. She _lingered_," Wil winces. "We...don't talk about it."

Doubt creases his forehead despite a small chuckle. "Whatever the reason, this was the only place they could think to bring you."

_Silly men. _"I keep my key in my pocket," her eyebrows raise. "Like normal people."

"You were weaving in and out of lucidity...and not entirely cooperative to begin with. I think they were afraid of losing a hand."

"Losing a hand? _What?_" Everything is fuzzy within her is, especially her head. It's at odds with the easy way they speak, the flow of back and forth and nothing between them on which to stumble. "Do they think I have _teeth_ down there or something?"

For a moment he doesn't get it, exhaustion a wall that humor must scale before dropping to the other side. But when he does, he _laughs_ and although his eyes avoid her own, there's a marked lack of embarrassment.

"Spend enough time around Chantry sisters, you might get that impression," he smirks. "If not teeth, demons at the very least."

Her lips press closed to trap an undignified guffaw at the image _that_ provokes as a momentary lull gives her body a chance to remind her..._ouch_.

"So am I going to be all right?" She nudges them back towards the ostensible reason why they're having _this_ conversation _in Fenris' bed_. "And please, give me your _professional_ opinion."

His forehead wrinkles in concern that should be long since passed.

"Uh, never mind," she waves him off. "Maybe just tell me why you put me to sleep?" Wil manages to twist so that her feet brush the floor. The stone is like ice, radiating bone aching cold that easily breaches her thin wool stockings.

Anders notices the slight jerk of her feet as they adjust to the unexpected cold. "I _think _the floor'senchanted, to keep the room cool in the summer. Clever, if you like wearing layers of socks," Anders supplies. Her _question _gets a rather sheepish half-grin, although his eyes don't lose their concern. "I had no way of knowing how the poison would progress, and...I didn't want you endangering your health."

"Endangering my health?" One eyebrow shoots up. "Says the man who probably hasn't slept in three days."

"Not just a man, _a Grey Warden_," his smile fades at this, a solemnly sarcastic reminder. "If I'm not sick or injured myself, I can go more than a few days."

And he doesn't mean it like that, but Wil can't help but hear it and be reminded of a rumor she'd heard, courtesy of Isabela of course, and her cheeks become hot as she struggles to keep from saying anything _inappropriate_.

_Braggart._

_Prove it._

_Challenge accepted._

"Completely unfair," she grouses instead and leans over so that her elbows are pressed to her knees and her fingers buried deep in hair that is a greasy reminder that she's probably the least appealing person in Kirkwall at the moment. "But I have things that need to be done."

"You do," Anders is reluctance as he moves beside her, getting to his feet and gathering the assorted vials strewn across the coverlet. "Varric raised the issue of further investigating the extremists responsible for the poison before going to the Arishok. Fenris believes that making the Arishok wait would only make him angry."

_Further investigating_ might not be the worst idea. That mad elf had backing, and Wil has suspicions of a sneering blonde persuasion. But an angry Arishok? _Eek_.

"I suppose it's to the Qunari compound then," her head offers a single throb, but she pushes against the pain, forcing herself to stand on jelly legs just as Anders begins towards the doors.

"And...you're off," he glances back, amusement and admiration playing across his features. "I have to get to the clinic...check on the rest of the attack victims, but I could meet you at the docks this afternoon." His voice lowers, "and don't tell Fenris I was here. I snuck in behind Isabela."

It takes most of Wil's strength to not fall back on her ass. "Isabela?"

"She was _talking_ to Fenris when I came in," the faint, salacious _oomph_ placed on "talking" is probably more in her imagination, Anders being too tired and beyond caring to insinuate anything this morning. Still, it rankles. "You might want to cough before you open any doors."

Or maybe not.

"Wonderful," Wil mutters as he disappears, allowing herself to sink back onto the bed, her head not quite ready to be so far from the ground. Or perhaps it's all Isabela, who has been deliberately not around since her stint in prison. Although Wil was beyond the point of caring about the state of them as occasional lovers, it was bound to be a _strained_ first encounter, and things might never feel right between them again. "The hazards of fucking your friends, I suppose."

There were bound to be a few.

* * *

><p>Despite her best efforts to avoid encountering Isabela, Wil finds herself bathed and dressed in near record time and with little left to do but stare at herself in the foggy floor-length mirror at the foot of Fenris' bed. Someone had snagged her a green linen tunic to wear in place of her platemail, which no doubt requires heavy fumigating after being doused in saar-qamek and blood. The effect of the light garment softens the toll of her most recent physical setback, shadowed eyes and cheekbones that were beginning to grow sharp beneath freckled skin. Carefully arranging her wet hair into something resembling order, or as close as she could ever get her hair to it, she draws a steadying breath and nods at her reflection.<p>

"Unpleasantness awaits!"

It takes a few minutes of careful stepping and a few wrong turns to navigate her way to the study where Fenris spends most of his time. She can hear the rise and fall of conversation and Isabela's throaty laugh is like a beckoning finger drawing her closer. The pirate is coming to the end of what was probably a long and bawdy tale just as Wil crosses the threshold and sees the back of her dark head, haloed by firelight and the oil lamp chandelier that is half-lit and hanging just above Fenris' table.

"Oh, the Seneschal's tax collector will be leaving you alone, like you wanted," Isabela shifts to a new topic, not knowing that Wil has entered the room, despite the sudden diversion of Fenris' attention up to his second guest. "Actually, it was a funny story, I-"

Fenris cuts her short with a distracted shake of his head. "I'll pass, but thank you for the help."

From the easy way Isabela bounds to her feet, it's clear she's not put out by his dismissal. "Spoilsport," she speaks tartly, "Why you'd want to squat up here in stuffy old Hightown is _beyond_ me."

"I like the view," he shrugs, his mouth curling up at the corner.

He knows he's given Isabela something to work with as she swings her hip out and laughs.

"Hmmm. So do _I_."

It takes Wil quite an effort to not roll her eyes, and even more to hold her tongue when Isabela turns to leave, her gaze falling on Wil and her expression defaulting to it's knowing smirk. It gives nothing away, which Wil counts as a good sign. Open annoyance at this point would be harder for her to overcome.

Fenris is waiting for Wil to take Isabela's abandoned chair, his posture straight and his fingers toying with the neck of an unopened bottle of wine.

_More of the _aggregio pavali_. Interesting._

"I take it the mage explained why you were here?" He seems strangely nonplussed by Anders' presence in the mansion. "Isabela saw him trailing her through Hightown."

"Apparently I have scary pants," Wil crosses her leg at the knee. "And he's gone. He'll be meeting me by the docks this afternoon. You're welcome to join us, if you wish. I think the Arishok likes you more, anyway."

He snorts. "It's a pity that he would be so impressed by a _bas_ having a passing knowledge of the Qun."

"The man'll take what he can get at this point," she hesitates before approaching the subject of wine and in that small pause, Fenris' expression grows distant.

"It's been three years since I came to Kirkwall," his chin lowers. "I can hardly believe that Danarius has left me alone for so long."

"This is his mansion, isn't it?" She gestures to the broken stone parquets and faded draperies. "Surely he knows you're here."

Fenris props his elbow onto the arm of his chair and smiles. "In fact it's _not_ his mansion. It belongs to a Tevinter merchant, one who has evidently given up on the place. Perhaps he is dead, by Danarius's hand or another. Either way, if Danarius is aware of my presence, he has done nothing."

"Don't tell me you're starting to miss the attention." It's meant as a joke and he takes it as such, a laugh rasping out before he settles back, his demeanor serious.

"Tell me, Hawke. What do you do when you stop running?"

The question surprises her. Or rather, that he'd care what _she_ has to say on the topic.

"It depends," she deliberates, choosing to maintain her light tone. "What are you good at, besides combat and _brooding_? You weren't always a slave, were you?"

His hands go out to offer her a better view of the silver veins drawn along his muscular arms. In the lamplight, they are luminous against his brown skin. "My first memory is receiving these markings, the lyrium being branded into my flesh. The agony wiped away everything," his voice is colored by the echoes of that pain."Whatever life I had before I became a slave...it's lost." Fenris continues staring at his tattoos as if they can answer his query, or clear the shadows that shroud his life. Then, his jaw jerking and his attention whipping back to her. "I shouldn't trouble you with this. You have not been well, and my problems are not yours."

It's her turn to laugh and lean against the arm of her chair. "I thought everyone in Kirkwall knew that I'm _the_ person to help you with your problems," she smirks. "And for my friends, I counsel as well as kill."

_My friends_ give him pause, and for the first time since they'd met, she believes he's considering whether he truly fits beneath that banner.

"In that case," he hoists the wine. "Would you think it forward if I served the last bottle of the _agreggio_? I've been saving it for a special occasion."

Her eyebrow arches. "Waiting for me to wake up in your mansion?"

"A _specific_ special occasion," the cork comes out with a satisfying pop and his expression grows grimly pleased. "The anniversary of my escape."

"Ooh, an anniversary," she straightens, genuinely interested.

"_Astia valla femundis," _he drinks, straight from the bottle before placing it back on the table. Droplets of wine caught on his lower lip are carelessly wiped away by hand before he leans forward. "Care to hear the story?"

"Of course," her response is quick. Escape stories hold a special place in her heart, what with having a few of her own. Even as tangled as Fenris' is bound to be, it will be interesting. Besides, "I enjoy listening to you talk."

And it's hardly the first time she's admitted to such, but he seems to find some charm in it this morning. His teeth flash in gratitude before he clears his throat. "Then I will do my best to be entertaining," he considers for a moment. "Let's see...you've heard of Seheron? The Imperium and the Qunari have fought over the island for centuries, now. I was there with Danarius during a Qunari attack. I managed to get him to a ship- but there was no room for a slave. I was left alone and barely got out of the city alive."

"There's nothing like war for covering one's escape," Wil muses, piecing together what little she knows of the long skirmish between Tevinter and the Qunari. "Well, war or a blight."

Fenris' head tilts as he clarifies, "I had no intention of escaping. That time. There are rebels in the Seheron jungles called Fog Warriors," his voice softens. "They found me and nursed me back to health. I stayed with them until Danarius finally came for me."

"Danarius ruins _everything_," she admonishes. "Was he at least relieved to see you'd survived?"

"Relieved to see his investment hadn't ended up in Qunari hands, perhaps," the bitterness of his tone is echoed in the lines that appear between his eyes. "But the Fog Warriors were as much an obstacle. They bowed to no master, and believed I deserved the same freedom. When Danarius came, they refused to let him take me," Fenris hesitates, his gaze diverting from her own, his hands balling into tight fists that press relentlessly into his knees. Despite the rage that Wil could sense uncoiling beneath his breast, the next words pour out with helpless anguish. "He ordered me to kill them. So...I did. I killed them _all_."

And it's awful to even consider, and worse still when she realizes that the rage is meant as much for himself as Danarius. The Fog Warriors had shown him such kindness, and she can't get her head around _why_. Why would he kill those who prized his freedom as if it were their own? Why would he obey Danarius with allies at his back? "Why would you _do_ such a thing?"

His chin quivers, then drops so that his hair falls across his eyes and she immediately regrets asking. "It felt inevitable," it's not an excuse. "My master had returned and this, this _fantasy_ life was over. But once it was done, I looked down at their bodies. I felt...," he chokes for a moment. "I couldn't...I ran, Hawke. I ran and I _never_ looked back."

"Fenris...," she wants to apologize for some reason. _I'm sorry_ could mean many things, and if she said it, it would be to acknowledge the unfairness of his circumstances. He, however, would see it as pity. So instead she pushes him away from dwelling on the fallen Warriors. "Didn't Danarius stop you?"

"The rebels had wounded him and his mercenaries weren't able to catch me. It was weeks before he was able to pursue me," he sneers at the memory, too, of old wounds reopened and his words like salt being ground in. "I knew the Fog Warriors only a few months, but in that time, I felt as if I truly lived. They were bold. Strong. I was in awe of them, and owed them everything," he finally meets her gaze and Wil can't help but wonder if there's a subconscious warning in all of this. "And I turned on them even so."

The silence that ensues is uncomfortably drawn, if only because it's the sort of moment where Wil can either accidentally say something profound or, more likely, something that will only piss him off.

"Well. Wow," she leans her elbows against her knees and shakes her head in disbelief. "I have to say, it's a gripping story, and not only because you're telling it-"

the corner of his mouth twitches into a slight smile

"-you should think about writing it down."

He flinches as if she's jabbed him, his black brows pulling low over his eyes. "Do you think they want _slaves_ to know how to write?"

_Well, that was nice while it lasted. _Her hands go up in self-defense. "I don't know? I mean, being able to kill a man with your bare hands seems more dangerous than _writing_ to me, but I was also recently face down in a barrel full of poison, so...my logic skills aren't the best."

"On a good day," he adds, grinding out his spiky annoyance and smoothing his way back to something near gratitude. "I have never spoken about what happened, to anyone. I've...never wanted to. You and I don't always agree, but...," it falters there.

"Too much wine will make anyone chatty," she gives him an out, although the sentiment turns her cheeks uncomfortably warm. "And you deserve credit for that _glorious_ understatement."

"Yes. I do," the wine bottle is back in his hand and he raises it high. "Let's just say you've earned my respect, Hawke. A last toast: to the fallen."

_The fallen. _She knows he doesn't mean to, but her mind wheels back over those who'd fallen to her and around her. The nameless and the dear, hallucinations and ghosts in dreams.

"And to those who survive," she finds her feet and starts to back unsteadily towards the door. "Sometimes it seems the worse lot."

Fenris' focus is deliberately on the wine. "Would you like some?"

"No," she responds too quickly and runs her hand through her still damp hair. "Unless you _want_ me to start a war with the Kossith."

"Ah, no," he sets the bottle aside and squares his shoulders for her benefit. "Perhaps I should abstain as well. You're just as likely to start a fight while sober."

_Fight. International incident. Same thing, really._

"And someone needs to be there to play the diplomat," she catches the smile that spreads across his face, obscured it is by the angle of his head and strands of silvery white. "Thanks, Fenris."

But his attention is elsewhere- maybe thinking through their last visit to the Arishok and what ensued, or maybe caught on a memory. It's only when she's moving carefully through the manicured squares of Hightown that she realizes how large it must loom in his life, given that his existence as the man she knows has been so short_ and so unfortunate_.

* * *

><p>It's another sweltering afternoon down by the docks, despite a cloud cover that offers significant reprieve from the harshness of sunlight on bleached stone, which is a pleasant break for Wil's still throbbing head. She's choked down as much elfroot and willow bark tea as she could stomach, but the pressure behind her eyes refuses to abate. Were the sun actually out, she'd probably have crawled down the Descent and through Lowtown. As it is, she's able to stumble through without too much trouble.<p>

Regardless, the heat is fierce. While the linen garment Wil had put on earlier would have been comfortable, she'd stopped home to change into something battle ready. It seemed a prudent thing to do, even moreso once they are inside the compound, where an even more unusual amount of attention is paid to their odd little group of humans, elf and dwarf.

"Something is different," Fenris remarks flatly from his place at her elbow. Gone is the specter of Danarius and the events of this anniversary. He's slipped into a more watchful mode. "Armor was a wise decision."

This does _nothing_ to help her stomach, which has decided to revolt against her herb-based brunch and the pungent harbor air that is trapped and stolid around them. Much of this morning had been spent mentally preparing for what, exactly, she'd tell the Arishok...and how. Despite jokes to the contrary, Wil sees how she's become a diplomat to these people, yet she's also seen the havoc their presence and their deliberate inaction has created in Kirkwall.

And while she cannot lay the entire blame for what occurred to in Lowtown on the Qunari, she feels comfortable in assigning some. A _little_.

"_It was allowed."_

_Or a lot._

The last time they were here, the Arishok had been waiting. Today they are halted short of the steps that lead up to his empty seat, remaining under the observation of his ever inscrutable guard. She's uncertain why his absence annoys her, only that it does. She's not adverse to standing around, and time spent not engaging with the Arishok _is_ her favorite kind of time. However, the memory of the gas as it filled the small square and the poor people caught between the unconcerned Qunari and the scarily pragmatic extremists is growing stronger, along with her headache, and when he finally emerges to take his place, the red of his war paint vivid under a colorless sky, Wil takes three long steps forward, arms folding across her chest and eyes narrowed in expectation.

The kossith guard only watch her, eyes moving in still faces until she stops at the foot of the staircase.

They know she isn't _that_ stupid.

The Arishok is unimpressed.

"So," he sets his shoulders low, which only emphasizes the vast expanse of rock slab chest and the thick muscles that cord from his shoulders and along his neck. "I was wrong about our thief."

Wil swallows her intimidation. "Don't worry. You'll get used to it."

His hands, resting palms flat on his knees, betray the tiniest annoyance as he continues, "They say we were careless with our trap, that this is our fault. But even without the saar-qamek, there would have been death. The elf was determined to lay blame at our feet."

There is a point to be made there. Albeit one that is not large enough to obscure his own role in the mess.

"You could have _prevented_ it," she frowns. "They couldn't have stolen the recipe if you didn't want them to."

He waves the accusation off as if it is beneath him, then gestures towards outward. To her, to Kirkwall. "Selfishness, want, _denial_- how do you allow this to continue?"

_How do _I_ allow this to continue? Andraste's ass, who does he think I am?_

He waits for her response, a subtle sneer pulling at his lips and it's enough to make her head throb.

It would be easy to waver beneath his steady gaze, his proven offense. He knows how he intimidates and he knows that she must be aware of how heavily outnumbered she and her friends are. However, he also considers her something more. Important enough to lay Kirkwall on her shoulders. Maybe he's not so unimpressed after all. Maybe she can take advantage.

She turns away almost casually, dismissing him as he'd done her, "If you won't talk straight, then we won't talk."

"Hold," he growls, and she hears more than just frustration in the command. She has an answer that he needs, and when she turns back to him, expression grim, he continues, "Since we arrived, I have seen nothing but greed and weakness. No order, no goal. You are one of the few I have met with any ability. And yet this too was random, a result of selfishness. I cannot fathom how a mire like this can be justified. You turned from me. Do you turn as easily from all this...chaos?"

_Why do you think I'm here?_ Wil blinks, struggling for a response that will spare whatever _lecture_ he's so intent to lay on her. "Our welcome to the city was _not_ that different from your own. Kirkwall might not have wanted us, but they let us stay."

_So...there is _that_. _

"And now you suffer it," the Arishok spits the accusation, baiting her. Despite what she might feel about Kirkwall the city, outside of the people she loves, she knows it could be worse.

Well, she _assumes_ it could be. She's not been _everywhere_, after all.

"I do what I can," Wil argues, recalling the small mental resistance she held when Viscount Dumar had called upon her. Still, she has not shrunk from assisting the Captain of the Guard, when needed, nor has she abandoned Lirene's cause, nor Anders'. "There are people in Kirkwall who care, who fight, and I think that we can make a real difference."

The Arishok weighs her words, giving them far more consideration than anything else she's said to him before turning his gaze aside to gesture at the Kossith that flank him.

"Karasten are soldiers. The Qun made it so. They can never vary from that assigned path, never be other than they are meant to be. But they are free to choose within that role. To accept and succeed, or deny and die. Glory is clear and defined. Could _you_," he looks beyond her, "could not this entire city benefit from that certainty? How else will you know when you have made 'a real difference?'"

Behind her, Anders issues a low hiss of dissent.

"How can you consider _freedom to obey_ freedom at all," her eyebrow lifts idly, as if this is a normal discussion over drinks at the Hanged Man. "Isn't that contradictory?"

The Arishok rolls his hand out,"He chooses to be. As do we all, long before any of your meaningless freedoms are presented." Then, his voice grows hard, his fingers curling in until only one is left, pointing at Wil for emphasis. "Your kind may force our role to change, if the Qun demands. But it doesn't matter. I am not here to fight; I am here to satisfy a demand that you cannot understand."

She would call him on the _you cannot understand_ bit, but as there's so much about the Qun that she genuinely can't wrap her head around that it would be a one-sided argument, as well as dangerous.

Not that what she says next is _safe_, exactly.

"It's been three years, though! Why stay in Kirkwall if you hate it so much? You could have built a ship by now, you know. The Viscount would probably offer _his_ if you asked nicely."

No, _not_ safe. Not if the quick fluidity of the Arishok's movements as he gets to his feet is any indication. Not if the threatening set of his shoulders and long strides towards her, but not _to_ her, is to be taken into account.

Not if the way his voice rings from the stone around them as he confronts her suggestion means anything.

"It is not about a ship! Filth stole from us. Not now, not the saar-qamek. Years ago!" He stalks, moving back and forth and keeping himself at a deliberate distance from her. "A simple act of greed has bound me. We are _all_ denied Par Vollen until _I alone_ recover what was lost under my command!" He breaks the invisible boundary before him, moving down three more steps until he is looming almost directly above her and she can smell him, a heady mixture of smoke and herbs and saltwater. This is the closest she's ever been to him and the immense size of him, the proximity, is enough to throw her off so that she does not brace herself or shrink as he continues to rave, "That is why the elf and her shadows are unimportant. That is why I do not simply _sail_ from this pustule of a city! Fixing your mess is _not the demand of the Qun!" _He shakes with the vehemence of his impotent frustration, spittle catching at the corner of his mouth as he throws his arms, forcing out that which he has clearly held too tightly all these long years."_And you should all be grateful!_"

And Wil is grateful, for so many things. Not least among them the quiet that rings throughout the compound, punctuated by the creak of leather and the Arishok's heavy boots on the stone as he turns and takes the stairs back to his seat, civility gathered like invisible robes to his sides. When he speaks again, he is the consummate ambassador to his people, a host rather than anything to be feared.

"Thank you, human, for your service," his gaze levels well above her head and his hands struggle to remain flat against his knees. "_Leave_."

She has never been so happy to do anything in her entire life, and fights the urge to run the final steps out of the compound and past the remaining guard. It's only when they're halfway up the ascent to Lowtown that she stops to confer with the others.

"That could have gone worse," Fenris seems almost pleased with the outcome. "I've never seen a Kossith get so angry."

"It's been building up," Anders posits with the certainty of a man who has been under such internal pressure. "But he's getting close to the edge now, and the Viscount should know."

"Definitely," Wil exhales, suddenly realizing that she's not breathed since _Leave_ and that she'd hoped to have better news to take back to Dumar. "That's my next stop on this neverending tour of fun."

She gets a sympathetic nudge from Varric, who has been oddly quiet this afternoon, even on their walk down to the docks.

"_Just watching history unfold, Hawke. I have to be mindful of the details...that's what makes a good story _great_."_

"Do you need some moral support? Someone to jump in if you...fumble with decorum?" The storyteller is no doubt angling for continued access into history on the make.

Despite very much wanting moral support in this, or to hand the task off completely so she can run straight home and curl up in bed, she declines the offer.

"Maker knows how long Seneschal Bran will make me wait before I can see him, and I plan on passing out as soon as I can afterward," her attention shifts to Anders, who has began rummaging through the inner pockets of his jacket. "If you pull some magical headache remedy out of there, I will kiss you like you have never been kissed before."

His already flushed cheeks turn a shade deeper and his gaze doesn't meet her own when he produces a small glass vial filled with a viscous red liquid that's more ominous than his usual concoctions.

"Wait until you have a bed to fall into," he hands it off, careful to minimize the potential for contact.

Wil's fingers curl around the vial, which is warm to the touch and strangely comforting against her palm. Fenris and Varric are already moving on, talking about Diamondback and how much Fenris may or may not owe a man called _Viper_.

"If this works, I'm naming my firstborn after you, at the very least," she tucks it into her belt before stepping off after their companions, Anders falling in beside her and moving closer now that he's not under direct scrutiny.

"You might be surprised to know how many babies already are named after me," he bumps against her and when she glances up; he remains in profile but with a distinctive spark in his dark eyes. "So I'm going to hold you to it."

"But not the other?" She feigns disappointment until a wistful smile breaks across his face.

"It _is_ tempting," he admits, and it's almost as good as the real thing. "Do you think you'll need me tomorrow?"

Wil considers the opening he's given her before playing it safe with a nod. "If that missing Qunari patrol has gone rogue, then we might be stumbling into a big, ugly fight."

"Exactly what I was afraid of," his expression darkens for a moment. "I find much of what the Arishok says to be complete horseshit, but he's right about Kirkwall. There's enough chaos here for a city twice its size, a Viscount who has no clue, and only a handful who even care to keep it in check."

"Do you think we're _that_ vulnerable?" She doesn't _love_ Kirkwall, but the idea of it being under Qunari occupation, or simply burned to the ground, rattles nonetheless.

"I think things could get nasty, and with _you_ caught in the middle," he takes her arm for a moment, his grip resolute as his words hang between them, foreboding enough that no embellishment is needed.

* * *

><p>It's past dusk before Wil finishes her business with the Viscount, a conversation that boils down to:<p>

"Oh. Well. _Fuck_."

Or something very close to it.

She's done her part, though, and Dumar seems to think it's enough as he sends her on her way out, hopefully ignoring the relief betrayed in her posture and lightened step as she leaves his office and heads out of the Keep.

She still has work left to do, but bed is her next goal and if she has any reason to be thankful, it's that today has been a day of meetings and not dismemberment and bloodshed. It means she can barrel through the foyer without drawing Leandra's concern and ensuing questions. It means she can drop her armor on the bedroom floor, skip the bath and fall directly into the soft embrace of her feather mattress.

It means-

"Hey, Hawke," Aveline is lounging outside of the entrance to the estate, her head just clearing the Amell family crest. "Fancy meeting _you_ here."

Wil tries not to appear _too_ annoyed as she lets them into the foyer, although she has a feeling that Aveline knows just how poorly timed her appearance is. She's _not_ one to crack wise.

"I'm surprised the Viscount has let you leave the Keep, considering," Wil deposits herself onto the nearest bench and begins working at the buckles of her armor while Aveline takes the one opposite. "He told me that he'll be meeting with some of the Qunari delegates."

Aveline sinks back against the stone wall behind her, arms folding over her chest. Despite the dim and uncertain lighting in the foyer, Wil can see that her friend is even more visibly stressed than she'd been the last time they'd spoken. Untidy strands of ginger frame her pale cheeks, and even when her face is relaxed, as it is now, the lines across her forehead remain.

"They only gave us two days to prepare," she frowns. "I like to have more time when it comes to the Qunari, but fortunately I have some new recruits...they should be able to handle a simple escort."

Wil finds this hard to believe. "You'd trust the new guys to handle a Qunari escort? Seems risky to me."

The lines deepen, but only for a moment.

"The boys might piss their pants, but I can't see the Qunari caring one way or another about four guardsmen," she shrugs. "I'm more concerned with the Viscount's safety, but the seneschal is handling those arrangements. I've been told to butt out." Her eyes narrow slightly. "Less stress for me, I suppose."

Wil's got her cuirass loose and eases it over her head before letting it drop to the floor.

"Must be nice to have a manservant to pick up after you," Aveline muses, shifting on the bench to sit up straighter, her gloved hands clasped between her knees. Wil recognizes the change in posture well enough. "So...let's say someone wanted to pass some work your way."

_Work_. The word sparks a small fire behind Wil's eyes, but she's able to shake it out.

"Let me guess...something that needs my legendarily deft touch?"

"Haha, Hawke," Aveline gets to her feet and begins pacing. "Someone's trying to be a guard. _Poorly_. Remember Emeric? The templar?"

_Emeric_. Wil closes her eyes to better sort through the templars she knows by name. Thrask...Cullen...Keran...suddenly she gets the image..._Emeric_. Older, with steel colored hair and grave demeanor.

"The detective. Yes, I remember," she opens her eyes and smirks. "Didn't like my jokes."

"_That_ could be anyone, but he does fancy himself a detective. He wants your help and some sort of official sanction."

"Official sanction?"

"For his 'investigation,'" Aveline can hardly keep from rolling her eyes. "He's convinced that every random murder in the past few years is connected, and he won't be quiet."

"Harsh, Captain, "Wil regards her friend for a moment. Aveline's not usually so dismissive of these sorts of things, much less openly mocking. "You don't think it's worth investigating?"

"I have," she stops pacing and leans against the wall next to Wil's bench. "He even convinced one of my lieutenants to raid the DuPuis mansion. Nothing. And you wouldn't believe how much ass I had to kiss after that," her fist clenches in frustration. "Bloody hobbyist constable. Why can't he spend his declining years building a boat or something?"

It does sound as if Aveline has exhausted her options.

Well, the _legal_ ones.

"Right," Wil stands and gestures emphatically. "Muzzle the geezer. Got it."

"I would _never_ say that," Aveline is terrible at feigning innocence. "But...if it leads somewhere genuine, I'll pick it up on your word. And if he shuts up, that's good too. He'll be waiting for you in the Gallows," she backs towards the door, her expression relieved as this is one less thing she needs to worry about. "Thanks. I appreciate it."

"You _better_," Wil follows to give her a small shove out into Hightown. "I've got things to do."

And normally Aveline would point out that drinks at the Hanged Man and screwing around are hardly things to do. But tonight she smiles, almost fondly.

"That you do, Hawke."


	14. A Bitter Pill

_Many people in the city owe you their lives, and I am one of them. When my friends and I were cornered by templars, you helped us escape. Over the years, most Starkhaven apostates have been captured. But thanks to the help of of many people, I have remained free. You've done so much for the apostates- if you are moved to do more, contact Mistress Selby near the Docks. She knows of many ways you could save more lives._

_Forever in your debt,  
>Terrie of Starkhaven<em>

The note is on a square of parchment, torn from the corner of a larger piece, the script hurried. Indigo smudges nearly obscure the last two lines, and it takes Wil several minutes to work out whom she should be contacting and where. She remembers Terrie, of course. _The pretty apostate with horrible taste in boyfriends._ It's curious that she would write directly to Wil, considering how easily notes such as these could be intercepted and tracked by the right person with the wrong motives.

Wil keeps the note close during breakfast. The potion Anders had given her had been something like miraculous. She'd slept without nightmares, and had risen with the sun, head no longer throbbing and the lingering weakness from yesterday replaced with renewed vigor.

Such is her motivation that she promises the scrap of paper by her plate that Selby near the Docks will be receiving a visit later this morning. She's already planning a trip up the coast to search for a lost Qunari patrol, so if this Mage Underground has any jobs in that direction, she can double up and get that much more done.

But before she can even think about work, she needs to eat. She's having trouble remembering the last time she'd had anything solid in her stomach, and although Bodahn's infamously soupy oatmeal isn't what she has in mind, it's relatively warm and will offer some fuel for a day of traipsing and getting shit done.

"Wilhelmina!" Leandra's voice rings from the dining room doorway, surprise clear in her tone. "I was just checking on you in your room...I hadn't expected you to be up already."

"Up and at 'em," Wil clarifies around a mouthful of oats. "In a manner of speaking."

"Yes, I see that," her mother is bemused as she takes a seat adjacent to Wil's and props her cheek up with her hand. Her blue eyes are bright as she watches her daughter eat, a secretive smile playing on her lips and between her attention and her abnormally good mood, Wil's growing more concerned by the second.

"Mother," she drops her spoon into the bowl and gives Leandra a thorough once over and comes away with the chilliest of thoughts. "Are you...did you...," she wrinkles her nose and forces it out. "Is there a, a, a _man-type reason_ for why you're all rosy-cheeked and happy right now?"

And she expects admonishment and _you and your dirty mind_. She expects an embarrassed and exasperated _Wilhelmina Amell Hawke_.

What she doesn't expect is for rosy to become scarlet and her mother to giggle, once, and then stare off into space as if imagining...whatever it is that's cheering her up so very much.

"Oh. My. _Fuck_," Wil shoves her bowl aside, forgetting for a second that this is her _mother_, who had been married to her _father_ and their love had been legendary in Wil's eyes. "There _is_ a man!"

"I never said that!" Leandra is back down to earth after that _fuck_, although she's nowhere as angry as she normally would be. "I just...what would you think?"

"If you were getting laid?" She's _baiting_ her now, almost desperate for a smack or _anything_ to make their dynamic normal again.

"By the Maker, your mouth is getting worse every day," Leandra folds her hands on the table top and chooses her next words carefully. "I meant...what would you think if I married again?"

The word catches Wil out. _Married?_ She's already thinking about _marriage_ and Wil had no idea there was a thing even happening in that...area of her life. _Her_. _Leandra_. Her _mother_.

And she has no idea how she wants to respond, let alone how she _should_. On one hand, Malcolm had been dead for nearly seven years, his death mourned as long as a death can be mourned and Leandra had remained steadfastly faithful to his memory...for seven years. Wil has had how many lovers in that same time period? Why should her mother go without companionship?

Why should the thought of her mother committed to anyone who isn't her father make her stomach feel hollow?

"I...what brought this on?" Wil asks, her voice neutral.

Leandra draws a deep breath, and even as her tone grows serious, the light in her expression remains and she's younger, and prettier, than she's been since Lothering.

"Well...I just realized that I need to do something. I can't spend the rest of my life mourning Carver and Bethany, and you're far beyond my ability to control," her fingers drum against the table top for a moment before she continues. "I started to wonder about life once your children have outgrown you, and..."

"You met someone," and Wil's voice is no longer neutral. Instead, it's sympathetic. Wil's life is very much her own and Leandra has been existing on the edges of it for some time. Perhaps even before the Blight had taken her and Carver to Ostagar. She's never thought to consider how lonely her mother must be. She has friends, but only Wil and Gamlen to call family and that can't be satisfying in the _least_ after forty some years of being loved- by parents and by Malcolm and by her _children_.

"I...did," Leandra's face flushes again, only this time she grows defensive. "But I'm not ready to talk about him. Not yet."

Wil holds her hand up in surrender. "Fine, fine! Take your time."

"I will," she nods and waggles a finger in Wil's face. "So _no_ prying."

"No prying!" Wil echoes, taking up her spoon again. "Believe me, I can live without _details_."

"Good. And who knows," Leandra stands and pats her daughter on the shoulder. "Perhaps I'll inspire a certain apostate to finally take some initiative."

The oatmeal in Wil's mouth turns to cement and before she can sputter out a _Leandra Amell Hawke!_, her mother is out of sight and only Wil's chagrin and the floral scent of her favorite perfume remain.

* * *

><p>Anders' clinic is busy when Wil arrives, although she can see that few of the patients are in serious need of attention. Most are here to have wounds cleaned and covered, or to purchase herbal remedies. Near the front, Muriel occupies herself with a pair of tweezers that she's using to pull debris out of a minor wound. Her attention wonders up to Wil when she walks in, her forehead crinkling in welcome as she nods towards the back of the room, where Anders is arguing with Isabela.<p>

_Of all the_...Wil bites down on a sigh and meanders towards her friends, one of whom seems far more agitated than the other.

"Ointment? That's it?" Isabela's dressed almost conservatively, if a skirt that's slit up to her ass can be called "conservative". She's also eschewed her usual jewelry and Wil wonders if she's not attempting to go incognito for some reason. It's certainly not out of embarrassment of being seen down here, as she does nothing to lower her voice. "Are you telling me that you can close a knife wound by thinking about it, but a _rash_ is beyond your abilities?"

Anders, to his credit, is amused. "That is _exactly_ what I'm saying. And trust me, I was just as frustrated as you were when I found out."

"_Rrrrrr,_" she palms the pot of ointment and tucks it into her cleavage. "Just so you know, I'm not paying you for this. _Useless_."

His smirk deepens. "Then stop running to me every time you pick up one of these diseases."

"It's _not_ a disease," Isabela clarifies, spinning on her heel to leave only to find her eyes falling on Wil. They dart away reflexively. "It's a _rash_ and seriously, what use is magic if it can't heal a _rash_?"

"_Good-bye_, Isabela," he leans against the examination cot, a near smile on his lips that fades when he sees Wil.

_Always_ a good sign.

"Do I want to know?" Wil asks mildly, hoping to downplay the reason why Isabela's health would be of any concern to her. "Actually, I _do_ want to know. For...my own reasons."

Those _reasons_ dawn easily on Anders; he's not put it out of his head that she and Isabela had been involved in the not too distant past.

"A recent acquisition...she was shirty with the details," he wipes his hands down his thighs and shrugs. "In unrelated news, the Seneschal came by in the middle of the night and was _also_ sent home with ointment."

"_Oh, the Seneschal's tax collector will be leaving you alone, like you wanted." _

_Isa_bel_a._

"On the plus side," he begins towards the back room, "I was able to diagnose them both based on description alone."

"It really is the small things," she follows. "They make life so _grand_."

"Speaking of small things," he allows the door to shut behind them and she's got a quip about _small things_ all readied to go when she sees the shadow that's fallen across his face. "Things are getting worse. I had hoped otherwise, but there have been more and more reports, and last night I closed the clinic just as templars were nearing my doorstep."

"Templars, _here_?" Wil's breath catches for a moment, quips and other things falling from her thoughts as quickly as the image of Anders in chains appears. "I don't care for the sound of that, Anders."

"It's the Knight-Commander," he paces for a few moments before squaring off with her, his jaw tight and his eyes bright with anger. "She's out of control. Even her own people are talking about it. The midnight raids, attacking anyone who might be helping an apostate...and I found out this morning that two mages I worked with were caught and made tranquil. The rest have been forced into hiding."

And she can see the toll this admission is taking even as he tells it. She can read the pain that builds on rage and helplessness, that is underscored by the realization that everything he's been doing is all for nothing. The mysterious business, the manifestos, the healing...nothing matters when your enemy has all the power. Power over life and death, power over humanity, and power over the common rhetoric that makes it too easy for safe and secret places to be discovered.

"Stay in my cellar, Anders," Wil fights to keep from touching him, instead moving back towards the door and curling her hands into tight fists. "You can come and go as you please, and I'll help in whatever way I can. Just...let me get between you. I'm not someone who can just disappear without anyone noticing or caring, and Maker knows enough people in this city owe me favors."

Even as she makes it, she expects him to flatly decline her offer. The last thing he wants to do is hide. He's not here to hide. He didn't take Justice into himself to hide. And even if the days would be spent in his clinic, or with her, stowing away in the night, when there are circle mages being violated in their beds and apostates with no save haven, would be anathema to everything he is.

"Every minute you spend with me puts you at risk...and the things they could do to you. The lies they could tell to justify imprisonment or hanging. You saw what they did to Karl, you've seen the Gallows. Do you think Meredith would hesitate to make an example out of you?" His voice falters, misery _radiating_ from his pores as he considers it. "And if anything happened to you, I don't know what I'd do."

_Drown us both in blood, if I remember correctly._

"If you expect me to sit back and let them get to _you_, then you're sadly mistaken," Wil fights the urge to add a _bub_ or _messere_ on there. She's walking a fine line already by being honest with him. About her _feelings_. "I'm _with_ you. Whatever that means."

His head shakes head, his brow tense, and she wishes it could relax.

She wishes his expression could be for an admission made, and not for the precariousness of reality.

"You don't want to tie yourself to me," he forces out, his eyes held sideways as he peers into a past she does not know. "The things I've done...the violence. And the worse things are, the less I can control it. If you stay with me, you'll only be hurt."

It's infuriating and heartbreaking, a pushing away and the most pessimistic view a person could ever hold of themselves. No matter what she's done, no matter how hard she tries to ensure that the Anders he sees reflected back from her is ultimately _good_, he keeps getting stuck in this trap of self-denial and self-hatred and profound hopelessness.

Wil sinks into the door, her posture defeated even if she's far from giving up.

"You deserve a normal life, Mina," he must see that spark of defiance, _but he's a damned fool if he thinks that's the way to kill it._

"I've never had a _normal_ life. The Chantry saw to that," she straightens, arms folding against her chest. It's a firm stance for a truth she always thought obvious. "Father was a smart, gifted man and Mother was nobility...yet we spent our lives on the run, hiding from templars and trying to keep Beth safe and untouched by the reality of our situation," Wil frowns, and tries to control her voice and the newfound frustration that's catching the edges on fire. "_Normal_ to me isn't living in a mansion and _parties_ and having a 'respectable' husband and-and, children. Normal to _me_ is running and fighting and loving someone enough to keep running and fighting, even though it's dangerous."

Now she's uncertain how she wants him to respond, although she knows that the way he's still refusing to look at her that he's piecing together more excuses-

_reasons_

why she should leave him and never come back, as if she's not heard them all already. T_he next time we have this discussion,_ she posits to herself, _I'll just start chanting _I don't care_ until he stops and maybe it will sink in._

His shoulders slump and the sorrow that befalls his face, the resigned bow of his head, both lances her frustration and adds new frustration in its place.

_Dammit, Anders._

"_Please_. Just let me-"

"Anders!" The door behind Wil swings open and Lirene plows in, no apologies given and Wil can see panic in the older woman's face. She immediately steps away so Anders can get to a patient who is being helped onto a cot by a pair of his assistants.

She's elven and young, too young to be as pregnant as she is and incredibly small beyond the huge swell of her abdomen. The shift she wears is dirt-encrusted and clinging to her like a second skin and when Wil gets closer, she can see that her bare feet are calloused and covered in sores from exposure to the filthy, rubblestrewn pathways in the undercity.

Her legs are the most damning, however, bone thin and slick with black blood that Anders is already trying to wipe away, his brow furrowed in intense concentration as he searches her with his magic, hoping it will tell her something that she herself cannot convey with wordless screams and cries for mercy.

Wil has seen a few births in her lifetime, and enough alongside Anders for them to both know that she's a far from ideal assistant in these circumstances. So instead of hovering around and getting in the way, she slips out through the front of the clinic, her mouth tilted in mild bemusement as she realizes both patient and healer are exactly who the other needed.

* * *

><p>The Hanged Man is as cool and empty as the Lowtown market had been packed with sweaty, impatient shoppers and Wil falls into the familiar tavern with a relief usually reserved for returning to the arms of an old lover. It's comforting after her...<em>discussion<em> with Anders, and the way he could talk himself out of so much progress.

_You're almost as attached to this dump as Varric is_, she distracts herself, running a hand over the rough wall before scanning the room. She's not certain who she expects to see besides the same faces that are always here, the same broad backs at the bar and familiar profiles in the shadowed edges of the floor. It's reassuring, all of it, and especially the raven haired woman who watches from her own perch, a seat that even new blood know not to touch and one that Varric swears has been worn down to fit her ample

_distinctive_

backside.

Wil hesitates for a moment because a look is _not_ an invitation and Isabela has had two opportunities to do more than smirk in her direction. The fact that she'd not offered more than that means something, but Wil's suddenly past caring what that might be. Besides, with Anders occupied, she needs another body to join her on the Wounded Coast.

Isabela pretends to not be watching as Wil approaches the bar, but her glass poised so that she throws back the entire tumbler the moment Wil drops onto the stool beside her.

"I'll have a cider," coppers dribble from Wil's palm before she pushes them towards the bartender. Without turning her head, "If I didn't know better, I'd say you've been holding up that bar for the past three years."

_Clank_. The tumbler hits the counter and Isabela leans forward, the fall of black hair over her freckled shoulder coming into Wil's peripheral vision. When she speaks, it's arch and distant and _clearly_ she doesn't give a damn.

"Makes me easier to find," Isabela taps the bar twice, an established order for quiet mornings and gives Wil a sideways glance. "Here for Varric, or did you _really_ come all this way just to reminisce?"

"A little bit of column b...and all of column a," Wil can afford honesty here and Isabela would see right through any lies. "I thought I'd give you a proper...chatting up, rather than a passing nod. Besides, I could use an update on Captain Isabela's Tour of Mischief and Mayhem."

This earns a chuckle, surprised and pleased and perhaps _charmed_, and the sound of it's a good whiskey burn at the back of the throat and the slow spread of familiar warmth downward as it goes.

"The usual. Mischief, mayhem...cards and alcohol and other people's money. Oh," Isabela tosses her hair back and knocks against Wil's shoulder with the back of her hand and if anything could get them back to normal, it's _this_. "You'll be glad to hear that I've got another lead on my relic. I'm so close I can _taste_ it."

"Relic?" Wil scrunches her nose in thought, eyes rolling up to search the ceiling as if it has the answers. "I don't think I recall anything..._oh_. _That_ relic."

"_Yes_," Isabela exhales dramatically, clearly wondering what she's gotten herself into. Again. "_That_ relic."

Wil offers Isabela an encouraging smile. "Hopefully this lead is more substantial than the last. I seem to recall we came back with nothing but a few bad poems and a handful of holey stockings."

"Don't forget the boot," Isabela smirks into her new whiskey. "And I've had worse adventures. Maybe I'll invite you along, again. You _did_ offer to help me find it, after all."

"Of _course_ I did. But I guess it was too much to hope that you'd forgotten."

Isabela laughs again. "It's the price you pay for having me at your beck and call every time the local color gets...too colorful. In a violent way."

"Speaking of...are you up for a jaunt to the coast? I promise we'll wave at the Siren's wreckage while we're out," Wil skirts the topic of Isabela's rash. "And who knows, maybe the stars will align and we'll trip over the relic while we're out."

"Not even I'm that lucky," Isabela swings her legs around and slips off her stool. "But I could use a break from holding up the bar. I'll meet you in Varric's room."

She ambles on her way upstairs and Wil follows close behind, relieved and amused in equal parts and grateful that something positive has come out of these past few days of...not much good at all.

Varric's ready and not alone when she reaches his suite. Fenris has slung himself across two chairs, a steaming mug of tea curled in one bared hand and his expression as close to blissful as she'd ever seen it.

"Tell Hawke what you just told me," the dwarf is working at Bianca's stock with a polishing cloth and his eyes never leave the crossbow.

Fenris jerks his chin to indicate Varric's unmade bed. "You were right...I don't think I've had a better night's sleep."

Wil's attention flits between the two men, a delighted smile insinuating what Isabela would have been confident, or crass, enough to announce to everyone in the Hanged Man.

"No, Hawke," Varric still hasn't looked up. "The elf got about as far as you ever did."

Fenris non-responds by taking a long swallow of tea, allowing the steam to curl up and around his cheeks and into his hair. It's almost fascinating to see the care with which he handles the teacup, especially after three years of watching him manhandle wine bottles and, well, _people_. She wonders if this is a habit picked up from observing Danarius and the other magisters, with the added bonus of it being horrible and hilarious to picture a group of powerful blood mages sipping delicately while discussing that morning's blood sacrifice or an upcoming slave auction. Maybe he knew a tea connoisseur, someone who scoured the markets for rare blends and stored them in a special wooden box that would be pulled out in the quiet moments between work and work and what rest could be stolen.

"Hawke," Fenris' flat pronunciation of her name pulls her out of that strange reverie. But it leaves behind a strange lump in her throat, one that she wants to leave untouched and unexamined.

Instead, she _pokes_.

"Did you get a handful of chest hair?" She touches her own breastplate for emphasis. "Run your fingers through it while pretending to be barely conscious?"

"Ugh, I knew you weren't really asleep," Varric shakes his head in mock disgust. "Although the _giggle_ should have given you away."

"No, I did not grope his chest hair. I slept," Fenris lifts his eyes to meet hers. "It was...a long day."

_And you know why, Hawke_, he's not saying. _You know something I can't share with anyone else._

"Now that you're well-rested, care to join us? Isabela's on her way."

This gets Varric's attention, and she can see from his expression that he's mentally drafting _A Tale of Reconciliation: Hawke and Her Pirate_. If there wasn't a room between them, and Fenris stretching in anticipation of another long day, he'd probably be prodding her for details, the better to fill in the gaps in his speculation. Instead, he finishes rubbing at Bianca's already gleaming surface and cradles her in her harness on his back. Then, with all the showmanship and verve she's come to expect from him, he cocks his head and gives her a little wink just as Isabela struts in, her arm going around Wil's shoulder.

"_Fenris_," she purrs. "I didn't see you come in."

Like he had back at his mansion, he sets her interest aside. "I didn't."

"Fenris stayed the night," Wil supplies, unable to suppress another wicked grin. "With _Varric_."

"O_oo_h," _intriguing_ and Fenris is already sighing and readied for the attack.

"No. I did not touch anyone's chest hair."

"Your loss," Isabela drops her arm and shrugs. "I hear it's good luck."

"And it grants wishes," Wil frowns. "Or so I've been told. I might've been awake when I went for it, but I was _far_ from sober."

Fenris glances between the two women and shakes his head, the tiniest of smiles curling at the corner of his mouth.

"Where are we going today, Hawke?"

Forcing herself to be more _leaderly_, Wil nods sharply and pivots towards the door. "First, I need to stop by the the docks, and then head up the coast. It should be a pretty straightforward day of, you know, killing," she shoots Fenris a meaningful glance. "Far less..._long_ than yesterday."

* * *

><p><em>I should just stop saying words,<em> Wil chastises herself, reeling from the sights and sounds around them. _Just…no more. Ever again._

There's a pile of bodies, corpses worn down by blades and bolts and a few with gaping holes in their breastplates, and a mercifully incomprehensible mess of viscera beyond. The room smells of smoke and lyrium, of loosened bowels and an age's worth of sweat.

Fenris stalks, as he's been stalking all afternoon, and Wil can see the rage that is building ever steadily as he kicks at the slavers he hasn't eviscerated, a passing insult to their memory. He's trying to collect himself, to return himself to the present where capture is _not_ a foregone conclusion and he has more than himself and his own survival to consider.

For example, the girl who is _not_ cowering in the far corner of a large holding pen despite being alone in a room with four heavily armed and blood-covered strangers.

Instead she _waves_ at them, mistaking their quick pause to catch their breath, and to get Fenris under control, for a simple case of not _noticing_.

"Um..hello?" She has a sweet voice, high and heartbreakingly _young_. "Can you please...I don't know what's going on."

_That makes all of _us, Wil glances over to where Fenris has finally stopped his prowling and despite the menace in his sneer, which has been firmly in place since Tevinter slavers had ambushed them on the coast, he's not wholly without compassion and he manages to straighten himself up enough to help Wil deal with the girl.

She's an elf, which Wil should have guessed from her slight build. But even more so than Merrill, she's gaunt. Sharp cheekbones push against painted cheeks and her moss colored eyes are wide and bewildered. Her plain dress is torn, dirty but not bloodied and although her hair has mostly slipped free of its bun, it appears to have been recently washed and Wil gets the impression that this skulking about in the slaver pens is a recent development.

She allows Fenris to take the lead.

"Are you all right?" he asks roughly. "Did they touch you?"

The girls' eyes manage to grow larger, startled by his insinuation, and Wil all but grabs her attention, trying to give her a less bleak figure in which to confide.

"No!" The girl twists her hands in distress. "I'm...fine, but they've been killing everyone! They cut Papa, and they bled him!"

Fenris stiffens beside her, "Why?" He moves his gaze to Wil. "Why would they _do_ this?"

"From what you've told me, it's the magister way," she frowns. "This...Hadriana. She could be taken by a demon now, with nothing of her left inside. She would need the blood for-" _don't say evil magical rituals don't say evil magical rituals_ "-stuff."

The girl nods vigorously, pointing to Wil. "The magister...she said that she needed power. Someone is coming to kill her!" Then, as if truly noticing Fenris for the first time- from the faint glow of his tattoos and his blood-streaked hand, she takes the tiniest of steps _away_. "_Oh_."

He's already ashamed, his head lower and his breath grown ragged as he seethes in a rage that had been, until now, burning only for the slavers.

"It's all right," Wil finds her most soothing voice, one she'd thought lost to the Deep Roads. "Can you tell me anything else?"

"We tried to be good," the girl is plaintive. "She loved Papa's soup and he _never_ talked back, I- I don't know how this could happen! I don't understand."

And that's not what Wil was looking for, but it certainly is _crushing_.

"You didn't do anything wrong," Wil struggles for the easiest way to alleviate the girl's shame and confusion. It wouldn't bring her father back, or erase the memory of what she's seen and endured, but it might make her feel better. A little. "You weren't a person to them, you were _property_."

Pale eyebrows droop and the girl hugs herself for warmth or comfort or reassurance that no, it was never _that_ bad. "But everything was fine until today. I swear!"

"No, it wasn't," Fenris sags, perhaps remembering a day when he would have been as defensive as she is of those who did not deserve it. "You just don't know any better."

"…_oh_," it's quiet, and the girl scuffs her feet against the stone, clearly wondering what happens next, now that she's away from the blood mage and near people who seem safer. Then, her chin still down, "So...are _you_ my master?"

The question is like a physical force that hits Fenris in the chest and he answers quickly, the very air knocked out of him carrying a single, definitive, "_NO_."

His vehemence does not dissuade her. "I can't cook as good as Papa, but I've done a lot of cleaning and minding children. _Please_," an edge of desperation cuts her voice. "I'm a hard worker."

Hopeful eyes beseech Wil and Fenris, and Wil remembers how it felt to land in Kirkwall, displaced and uncertain where she and her family would be sleeping or if they'd be able to afford food. As horrible as it had sounded at the time, and as bizarre it feels to admit it, Gamlen had done them a favor by connecting them with Athenril. It was a way into the city and once they figured out the whole _looting_ thing, a steady income.

"All right," Wil rummages through one of her pouches until she hits upon the perfect thing. Withdrawing a tiny metal shield with the Amell family crest painted in crimson across the front, she hands the token to the girl. "Go to Hightown in Kirkwall and look for the Amell Estate. There will be crests that like this one outside the door. If I'm not there, tell them that _Wil_ sent you and show them this."

There's a moment's hesitation before the girl accepts the offering, her head tilting sideways to see past the dead bodies that are strewn between her and the entrance. "You...killed them all?"

Wil nods. "It should be safe...just step carefully and get to Kirkwall as fast as you can."

"Okay," her expression grows determined. "Hightown. Amell. Wil...okay."

She runs past, her blonde head barely clearing Varric's and Wil's so strangely delighted by this fact that Fenris has to seethe _Hawke_ to get her attention.

"I didn't realize you were in the market for a slave," his voice grinds through clenched teeth and the accusation jolts Wil because who could possibly think _she_ would _do_ that?

"Are you _kidding_ me?" For a moment it's easy for her to forget why they're there, and what it must feel like for Fenris. The past, closing in on him. It's all horrible but..._taking a slave?_ "I'm giving her a _job_, Fenris. She'll stay with me if she wants, and she'll be _paid_."

Silence stretches between them, underlined by the shuffling of boots on stone and the smallest creaking of Fenris' neck as he twists his head, tension drawing him too tight to maintain rationality.

"Oh," he responds at length, blinking hard against _of course_. "I'm...glad."

_Andraste's ass._ Wil draws a sharp breath and turns to assess the recent dead. She doubts they possess much of value, but there's always a chance they could have orders or documents that might help trace Danarius if this whole Hadriana thing turns out to be a bust.

Which, from the way Fenris has started moving again, like a predator as he stares into the dark passage that should lead them to his master's apprentice, it might all fall apart. He wants to make an example of this woman, and though Wil can hardly blame him, he'd be well-served by information, too. If he goes too hot, chances are he won't be able to control himself once he's close enough to kill her.

"Time is wasting," he calls over his shoulder. "We cannot let her get away."

Wil pushes her hands through the satchel of a fallen warrior, his armor more ornate than the others. She comes away with a two gold pieces, a blank scrap of parchment and an amulet wrapped in wool. The contents get hurriedly dumped into her own pouch and Wil signals Varric and Isabela to stop looting.

"Hadriana is a powerful mage in her own right," he sniffs the moment she's beside him. "And she will use every nasty trick she knows to survive."

"I'm not expecting anything less," Wil allows the the tip of her blade to touch the stone floor while she bounces the hilt in her hand. "She _did_ kill innocent slaves to protect herself."

His eyes narrow and she can see them liquid with rage. "Her master would require far less reason to do the same."

_Wonderful_. Wil allows him to lead on, Isabela moving between them, stepping lightly and searching for potential traps. _As if she could stop Fenris before he'd plow on through._

Varric catches up to her, his head bobbing at her shoulder and his attention rapt on Fenris. He's an observer right now, puzzling out the elf from the scraps Fenris reveals in conversation and far more under pressure. That a person he knew well enough to host after a rough day, expressed in vague hand waves and _don't press on me, dwarf _steeliness, could remain such a mystery might frustrate him from time to time, but being along for moments like _these_ makes up for it.

Their pace is set by Fenris and his strides grow longer, urgent, as if everything that he could stand to lose

_nothing much...just his freedom_

is riding on this confrontation.

Wil wonders, someplace deeply held and reserved for thoughts that are far darker than she usually allows, if he's afraid that seeing a specter from his past will affect him now the way it had in Seheron, when falling into his role of slave and willing killer had seemed as inevitable as breath.

If it happened...would she be able to stop him? To convince him that this life in Kirkwall is his alone, and that nobody could take it from him? They've had their moments, close ones that might have been _close_ were it not for the long shadows of others and the way that he could make her prickly like no one else, and he in turn even quicker to assume the worst of her.

She's still uncertain when they turn the last corner, Fenris more lightning bolt than man as he streaks across the chamber, sword drawn and slicing through the summoned corpses of the recently bled.

An arrow zips towards her, launched by an ancient skeleton and she's barely able to knock it away with her blade. If she dies, she has no chance of doing anything but being dead, _and a dead Wil Hawke helps no one. _

That she can think of off the top of her head, at least, and in between striking off at shambling corpses and hissing shades.

She tracks Fenris as she fights, which is always a good idea. Getting in his way is a sure way to perish. He seems bent on clearing a path to the far end of the chamber, moving towards a shimmering mass of arcane blues and purples that are shot through with the pulsing energy of blood magic. Once Wil sees it, she can smell it like the fetid corpses that her scouting parties would find in the Wilds around Ostagar. It lacks the striking _thickness_ of the taint, but it's foul in a way she's never before encountered with a mage. Not even the worst of the maleficar in Kirkwall have possessed magic that felt so _wrong_.

"Hawke!" Fenris gets her attention over a rapidly diminishing horde of enemies.

Wil has only a second to spin around before the figure of a gaunt woman materializes behind her, the flood of decay overwhelming in her aura but without the excessive amount of wards to shield her. As soon as their eyes meet, Hadriana begins to cast, her blood-slick fingers twining sickly yellow light. The spell hits immediately; Wil's vision goes impossibly bright and the stench of the chamber around her becomes heavy with undertones of smoke and corruption.

_But._

But she wills herself past the tendrils of fear that are attempting to claim her. She blinks off the sights and smells of Lothering as it falls, Carver's broken form disappearing beneath handfuls of dirt, and pushes herself to bring her sword up between them, the air offering more resistance than it should. Somehow she's stronger than Hadriana expected her and when Wil whips the flat side of her blade against the other woman's head all that is malicious dissipates, leaving only confusion as Hadriana collapses and finds herself at Fenris' utter lack of mercy.

"She's mine," he wards Wil away, but she refuses to take more than three steps back as Hadriana's eyes are wild in search of another source of power.

Fenris sees it, too, and throws his foot down between them, his tattoos fading but still distinct in the torchlit gloom of the chamber.

"Stop!" Her eyes, bright and small in her drawn face, betray fear that is no less clear in the panicked edge of her voice. "You do not want me dead!"

"_Hadriana_," he exhales, hatred ground into every syllable. He lifts his sword, balancing it as he does to ensure that the next blow it strikes is fatal. "There is only one person I want dead more."

She skitters away until her back is against a wall, "I have information, elf," _elf_ is a distasteful word that gets spit out, even as said elf has her pinned by his fury, "and I will trade it for my life."

_Take it_, Wil mentally throws the words at Fenris. _Or at least _pretend_ to._

The sword wavers.

"The location of Danarius?" He scoffs. "What good does that do me? I'd rather he lose his pet pupil."

Behind them, Isabela makes a small noise that sounds a bit like _don't be an idiot_.

Hadriana's eyes narrow, but briefly. Then, as the sword steadies, she protects herself with a raised hand, allowing her words to tumble out in a rush of self-preservation. "You have a sister! She's alive and _I_ can tell you where to find her."

Whatever he might have expected to hear, _this_ news is beyond him. The revelation strips him of his posture, the threat of his sword abandoned to his side as he stares down at his enemy, mouth open in disbelief.

"You wish to reclaim your...," she works up a dismissal, "_life_? Then you will have to let me go. If you do so, I will tell you where she is."

"Riiiiiight," Wil rolls her eyes. "Because you've proven yourself the trustworthy sort."

Hadriana cuts her gaze to Wil, clearly displeased at having to answer to what she probably assumes are Fenris' lackeys. "I know Fenris, and I know what he's searching for. If he wants me to betray Danarius, he must pay for it."

"It's a fool's bargain unless your information is good," Wil shoots back. "We find his sister, and _then_ we'll let you go."

Hadriana laughs, a hollow sound. "So you think _I'm_ the fool. No. The woman is in the Imperium. I refuse to be captive for the length of time it would take to find her. If Fenris wants to find out who he was, he must let me go."

It's a horrible bargain. Wil recognizes as much, but she also knows that there's a chance it could benefit her friend. "This _could_ be what you need to help you get your memory back, Fenris."

"Yes," Hadriana nods. "But I need Fenris' word...if I tell you where your sister is, then you'll let me go?"

He remains still, his expression hardened now and unreadable. Then, bending almost elegantly at the waist, he moves so that he can be eye to eye to her. Hadriana must sense that his hatred is tipping the scales towards _you die _as she flinches away from a blow that does not come.

_Immediately._

"All right," he speaks in a carefully controlled rumble. "You have my word."

Hadriana licks her lips, her face tilting upward, to better appear trustworthy, Wil assumes. "Her name is Varania. She is in Qarinus serving a magister by the name of Ahriman."

"A servant," he pauses. "Not a slave."

Hadriana shakes her head quickly. "Not a slave."

"Hmmm," he remains bent low, but his right arm is raising, the faintest flare of lyrium alerting all that know better to glance away. "I believe you."

Wil does not watch him kill Hadriana, the visceral sound of his hand entering her chest and the wet gasp that follows is enough for her. When she looks back, the body has been carelessly tossed aside and he is ready to leave it with the rest of her victims.

"We are done here," he turns quickly, shouldering past Wil as if he doesn't see her there.

"You don't want to talk about it?" Her face opens in surprise. "People _always_ want to talk about it."

"What?" He whips back to her and his voice becomes mocking. "No, I don't want to talk about it. This could be a trap! Danarius probably sent Hadriana here to bait me with this sister. Even if he didn't, trying to find her would be suicide! I now know, but Danarius has to know, too. And he has to know that Hadriana knows. My sister is nothing. All that matters is I finally got to crush that bitch's heart," his lips curl at the corner, a sneer as ugly as any Wil has ever seen. "May she rot and all the other mages with her."

_Asshole._ Wil takes a deep breath, reminding herself of what he's been through, how they'd been ambushed and _taken alone, Hadriana really _isn't_ a good poster child for mages. _

"Maybe we should leave-" her hand reaches out, although even as it does so she questions her motives and what she could possibly offer him at a time like this.

Fenris wheels away from her touch, anger flashing in his eyes as if he can't believe she'd do this to him. "I don't need your comfort. You saw what was done here. There's always going to be some reason, some excuse why mages need to do this."

Wil clamps down on her tongue, the faint taste of blood a testament to how very badly she wishes to challenge him.

"Even if I found my sister, she's serving a magister. Who knows what they have done to her," his nose wrinkles and the vehemence with which he spits ties Wil's stomach. "_What has magic touched that it doesn't spoil?_"

"_Oof_," Varric coughs into his hand, his eyes wide in feigned innocence.

Fenris has said too much, gotten too angry. It dissipates and reflects back onto himself. "I...need to go."

And he does, quickly swallowed by dark and stone and leaving Wil, Varric and Isabela staring after him.

"You were saying?" Varric murmurs, his chin tilting up as he surveys the damage around them.

"What?" Wil unclenches her jaw and shakes out her frustration with it. "What was I saying?"

The dwarf smirks. "That it wasn't going to be a long day."_ Remember? _"Something tells me you're going to have that one thrown in your face, Hawke."

"Of _course_ I am," she sighs dramatically. "I mean, I _am_ a seer. I should have known that his old master's apprentice was going to ambush us and be a crazy ass, slave-killing blood mage. It was all there in the stars."

"Tsk, tsk. And you were too busy thinking about mages to see it," he's on the move, mostly to get out of range of her swinging arms. "Or so I'm assuming."

Isabela remains quiet, her expression thoughtful.

"Do you think we should be worried about him?" Wil asks her, surprised. "We've only found the qunari patrol...we still have an apostate to save before we head back to Kirkwall."

Shoulders lifting lazily, Isabela saunters after Varric. "It's up to you, Hawke. But you'd only end up fighting…and he can handle himself."

It's true.

Even if _true_ feels jagged around the edges and about a half size too small.


	15. Elves

It's past sunset when Wil drags herself into view of her front door. The day had been, like the one before it, overcast, and the low cloud cover has trapped the day's sultry heat close to the ground. Aside from a few stragglers from the market, the way home is clear enough that she doesn't feel too odd dismantling her cuirass as she walks. The sooner she can dump the bloody thing and fall into a cool bath the happier she'll be.

But she tries not to think about it too much. Wanting to be alone and unoccupied is the surest way to invite trouble, or Aveline in need of some assistance, and Wil's had her fill for a while.

_Come on_, _now_, a small voice chides her as she's greeted by a pair of patrolmen- polite nods and "Serah Hawke" as she passes. _It's not that bad, is it? Better than haunting your own life like a sad, drunken ghost._

"Maybe," she mutters to herself.

"Uh, excuse me?" The voice is childishly high and Wil's not surprised when she turns to confront a young boy, a freckled lad with ruddy cheeks and unruly tufts of tangerine hair. "Are you...Lady Wilhelmina Hawke?"

"I'm Hawke," Wil wrinkles her nose at the _Lady_. "Let me guess...urgent message?"

The kid shrugs and offers up a scroll bound in orange twine. It's unlike any document she's ever seen and it's only the deepening dusk shadows that keeps her from reading it before heading inside.

"Thanks," her eyes squint and she digs through her pouch, searching for a few coppers to come up with a silver piece and an amulet loose of its wool wrapping. She flips the coin to the boy with a smirk, "_You_ lucked out."

The child snatches at the air, his ambivalence gone as he catches and then strokes the coin with his thumb before fleeing, as if she might snatch it back and replace it with a copper. She hardly notices him leave, however, because her attention is on the amulet. It's interesting, polished dark wood with a jagged sunburst inscribed in gold at its center. The edges are burnished in a strange checkered pattern and although its clearly tied to the Chantry in some way, she's certainly never seen the emblem _this_ stylized. She'll have to ask Fenris about it the next time she sees him.

_If_ she sees him. Her stomach sinks and remains there the last few steps to the estate and _if_ would be a concern for even longer were it not for the three faces waiting to confront her in the foyer.

_Uh-oh._

Bodahn leads the attack in his usual ingratiating way. Too much hemming and hawing and little half bows for her liking.

"Uh, mistress Hawke. Delighted to see you this evening," he scratches the back of his neck, glancing towards Leandra who supports him with an indulgent nod. "Well, I just wanted to tell you that there's an..._elf_ here. And not one of your usual elves."

"A girl," Sandal chimes in from where he's lounging against the wall. He, at least, seems excited.

_A girl? _

"Oh, _Maker_," Wil smacks her forehead with the scroll as the _other_ major happening of the afternoon comes back in a rush. The skinny girl with big eyes and nowhere else to go. "I _completely_ forgot about her."

Leandra winces and tries to cover it with a tight smile. "So you know her," whiffs out between thin lips. "Why am I not surprised?"

Wil scowls. Surely it's not _that_ bad. Almost every noble in Kirkwall has servants, most of them elven. If anything, the Hawkes are the odd ones out for having only Bodahn and Sandal.

"Where is she?" Wil pulls off her cuirass and ignores how Leandra frowns away from the blood-soaked tunic beneath.

"I lock- left her in the library, mistress," Bodahn mimics her mother's strained expression. "I didn't know what to do with her."

"You locked her in the library?" Wil's voice pitches up in disbelief. And they thought _she_ was uncouth. "You've probably been talking where she can hear you, too. Way to make a person feel _welcome_, guys."

She slips between the strangely united front of Bodahn and her mother, who is offering up a defense of their good manners.

"Maybe if she hadn't been shouting _Wil Amell!_ all over the markets, waving our family crest around, and looking as if she'd fallen inside a butcher's trough," Leandra hiss-whispers. "I know that's normal to you and your friends, but up here, it raises suspicion."

Wil stops for a moment, readying a more than tart rebuttal to _that_ dig but then decides it's simply not worth the trouble.

"Give me a few minutes to wash up and change," she mutters, running up the steps two at a time before another realization stops her at the top of the staircase. "Has she eaten anything?"

Bodahn and Leandra hedge with a shared glance, but Sandal sells them out with an emphatic shake of his head.

"_Really?" Did Mother _literally_ fall for someone, and hit her head on the way down? _"Well you might as well offer her dinner. Chances are she's here for good."

Wil retreats to the bedroom before she can be further baffled and annoyed by her housemates' strange reactions, stripping off the rest of her armor and underclothes as quickly as she can. It's far from how she wanted this evening to go and even the reality of a cold bath is less pleasant than she'd been imagining. Goosebumps raise beneath her hand as she smears scented soap along the filthier parts and the chill of the water sets deep into her bones in a way that not even a vigorous toweling and a thick robe can dispel.

_Now I'm all chattery_, she tugs the garment closer for warmth and descends the stairs. The library has been reopened, although Leandra and Bodahn remain in the parlor, waiting for Wil to deal with the situation that's not a situation at all. When Wil rounds the corner, she finds the elf sitting cross-legged on the hearth, a half-empty plate of cheese and apples in her lap and firelight engulfing her in shades of orange that give life to her sallow cheeks and sunken eyes. Her dress is even more disgusting than it had been in the slavers pens, and much of her hair falls in stiff maroon clumps over her narrow shoulders, but her face and neck have been scrubbed clean of blood.

_Licked_ clean, actually. Bello is curled beside her, almost her equal in height and surely her better in weight. The sight of Wil turns him wriggly happy, his tongue lolling out of his mouth even as he keeps his spot by his new friend.

"Your dog is huge," the girl states as he bumps against her cheek, his large tongue swiping her ear and her eyes remaining _huge_. "I'm...glad he's friendly."

"Bello, come here," Wil commands, dropping into the nearest chair, legs carefully crossed so nothing gets flashed in the process. The dog shuffles pathetically towards her, his haunches low in feigned embarrassment. "Nobody needs you being an annoyance while they're trying to eat."

"It wasn't like that at all, Lady Amell," the girl is adamant in Bello's defense. "He was _very_ well behaved. I think he only stole one piece of bread and an apple slice!"

"That's one piece of bread and an apple slice too many," Wil nudges his side with her foot. "Next thing you know, you'll be losing entire meals when you pause to take a drink."

The girl nods, her chin dropping so that she can't meet Wil's gaze. "Does that mean...you want me to stay here?"

She holds herself still, stiff, and there's something conflicted in the posture, as if she's both proud of what she has to offer and unworthy of having any pride at all.

"Well...it depends," Wil shifts, hoping that she sounds less formal than she feels. She's never negotiated this sort of arrangement herself, and none of the elves she's spent more than five minutes with have ever been..._servile_. "I want to help you more than I need help myself..." she catches, suddenly embarrassed. "You know, I don't think I've gotten your name."

"Orana," the girl squeaks it out through what appears to be the beginnings of a smile. "Just...Orana."

_Orana_ is simple enough. "Well, Orana, it depends," Wil tries again. "What do you _want_ to do?"

The question opens her up, and in an unexpected way. She relaxes, slumping forward in relief as she ponders an option that's probably never been hers to consider.

"I can cook a little, and I'm real good at cleaning," she points at the statue that looms over the fireplace, it's face obscured by cobwebs that waft in the lamplight. "I mean no disrespect, but whoever does it now..."

"Is terrible?" Wil finishes with a smirk. "Sandal is...easily distracted."

"Sandal...is he the young one?" Orana ducks her head. "He was nice to me when I showed up. Not that, not that the others weren't!" She amends, panic raising her voice as she realizes what she'd just implied about Wil's mother.

"No worries." With a glance to the figures that remain silhouetted just beyond the library door, Wil raises her voice so they can hear her, "They _could_ have done more to make you feel welcome."

The figures waver, then disappear.

Orana shoves a wedge of cheese into her mouth and chews hard.

"Listen," Wil stretches her legs in front of her, clasping her hands at her knees. "I have plenty of space. Sandal and Bodahn are in the servant's quarters, so why don't you take the guest suite for now. It's small, but it's quiet and has a nice view of the garden."

"A nice view," Orana echoes, her face gone slack in disbelief and Wil's chest tightens as she realizes the day _this_ girl has had. Fenris had been to the Void and back, but Orana is only a child and has lost her father and Maker only knows how many other friends. And in the most horrific way possible. "I don't know what to say, mistress. I'll do whatever you want," she sets the plate aside and gets to her knees to bargain. "I'll learn to cook better, and I'll clean and pull weeds and carry packages from the market and if you have babies, I'll mind them and I can sing pretty, Papa says, and I'll sing them to sleep if you want me to."

Her expression is _desperately_ hopeful. Like the courier with his silver, she's grasping this opportunity with both hands, terrified that it might be yanked away despite Wil making no move to do so.

"Whoa, whoa," Wil's hands go up in mock defeat. "No need for _mistress_ or _Lady Amell_, and there will be no babies for a good long while, if _ever_," she gets to her feet and offers a hand up to Orana, who takes it with fingers that are clammy despite the proximity of fire. "And, most importantly, you'll be _paid_."

"_Paid_," the elf repeats, the word sounding foreign on her tongue.

"Bodahn can handle your wages, if you'd like. He's got a good head for investments aaaaand that's probably getting ahead of things," Wil frowns, cursing her current inability to _not_ overwhelm the newly freed slave with information when she's still in rags and covered in dried blood. "I'll have Sandal bring in water so you can get cleaned up. Mother should be able to alter at least one of my tunics for you to wear until the markets open tomorrow," her nose wrinkles in thought. "Would you like to go with me to the alienage? It's the best place to purchase elven garments and I need to visit my friend Merrill anyway."

"Merrill?" Orana's barely keeping up with all of this. "That's not...the elf you were with today. You have a..._friend?_ who lives in the _alienage_?"

"She's Dalish. I know _two_ Dalish elves in the alienage, and another from the city who lives nearby," she peers through the doorway into the dining room, where Sandal has his runes and several large sheets of parchment spread out on the table. "Sandal, I think Orana would like a bath this evening."

"Okay," he shuffles off his chair, palming one of his runes. "For _warming_," he clarifies in the face of Wil's raised eyebrow. "No boom, just warm."

"_Very_ reassuring."

He smiles, oblivious to her sarcasm.

"Mother!" Wil pushes into the kitchen, where Leandra has shoved up the sleeves of her house dress and is submerged to her elbows in the wash basin. From the amount of furious scrubbing, there's no doubt she's trying to convince herself that Orana's origins are not of an illegal nature. Wil _should_ explain, but sometimes it's fun to toy with her mother's low expectations of her own child. "Do you have any suggestions on what we can do about Orana's...immediate clothing situation?"

Leandra pulls away from the basin, and regards the pair for a long moment. Orana offers a tremulous smile and, just as Wil had been that afternoon, Leandra is helpless in the face of someone who so clearly deserves a break, and a little kindness

"I have an old dress that shouldn't be too long on her. I can take it in so it's not..." Leandra gestures to her chest. "Too much."

Orana chuckles weakly, her cheeks turning pink.

"Or she can just shove a couple of loaves in there," Wil pantomimes. "Not a bad idea, to be honest. Tits and a snack, all in one!"

"Wilhel_mina_," Leandra moans and in that split second she recognizes their new housemate as a potential comrade in conspiratorial exasperation. "She gets it from her father."

"I got _everything_ from my father," Wil retorts, placing her her hands on her own flat chest for emphasis. "I wouldn't say no to a pair of tit loaves for myself."

Orana's beaming and on the verge of raucous laughter when Leandra sweeps by, her arm going around Orana's thin shoulders to lead her back to the dining room.

"I'll get some measurements before you bathe, then you can get some rest...or at least a reprieve from my daughter's sense of humor!"

Their voices grow faint as the door swings shut between them and Wil wants to grab the ensuing peace and run with it, so it can't be taken before she's ready to settle in for the night.

* * *

><p>He has walked down the stairs five times already.<p>

Six.

The guardsman posted at the bottom has taken to open staring. Fenris stares back, eyes narrowed and that is one problem solved.

Too bad it fails to take care of the others.

He goes up again, this time striding almost halfway to Danarius' mansion.

_His_ mansion.

_Danarius_. His hands curl into fists and he whips around._ This had to have been his plan all along._ The timing was too perfect, and knowing that the past three years had been a gift from his old master, in a manner of speaking, is sickening.

It hurts.

It makes him angry.

"_Dammit_," he kicks at the ground and ignores the couple that skirt past him, the woman clinging to her partner as they quicken from a leisurely walk to a near run. He cannot imagine how he must look. Even bathed and without his sword he cuts a dangerous figure in Hightown. He is usually not this obvious, choosing to remain in unless Hawke drew him out for a job.

_Hawke._

He glances towards the stairs, remembering all too clearly why they have become an obstacle. This afternoon, after he had killed Hadriana, he had left because he wanted to be angry. He wanted to stoke the fire of hatred that she had ignited. Flames fed on her blood, on her _life_ as it shuddered out of her and at that moment he had the power and _it felt good_.

It felt _so_ good, but it had not fixed anything. Danarius was still out there, minding traps baited with his intimate knowledge of what his little wolf would find truly irresistible.

_Answers_. _Family_.

"_Her name is Varania."_

He rushes forward again, feet moving swiftly on the stone and this time he doesn't flinch or backtrack. Earlier, he'd left because he wanted to revel in how much he hated Hadriana, and magisters and what they'd done to him and what they would do if they could get him back.

Now he does not want to be alone. He turns the last corner and the Hawke estate comes into view. This stops him, soles scraping a few inches as his momentum carries through and it is a bad idea. _Hawke_ is a bad idea.

But she had reached for him, after Hadriana. He had seen the concern on her face that was not pity or sympathy and he'd thrown it back at her. She had helped him, without hesitation, and he had been an ass _then_, but now? He wants to be in the presence of someone who will not use him, or capture him, or manipulate him.

Even if it is Hawke. Even if she goes on about how wrong he is about mages. Even if they argue-

_We _will_ argue._

-she will not sneer at him and call him _slave_ and perhaps he will say the right thing, ask the right question, and she will respond and some of the knots that have tangled themselves inside his head will loosen. He is not looking for answers-

he beats on the door

he just...

"Serah?" The elder dwarf's face is ruddy in the light that spills from the foyer and over his face.

"Hello," Fenris' tongue sticks to the sides of his mouth and makes speaking difficult. "Is...Hawke. Available?"

Bodahn wobbles away from the door, his posture wilting as he gestures for Fenris to follow him.

"Actually, I will wait here," he takes a seat on one of the benches, readied to run should the urge catch him, and it is a possibility. This house, this home, smells of bread and dog and fresh cut flowers. Through the doorway that leads to the parlor he can hear the soft murmur of voices and it is comfortable, like he imagines _family_ is.

"_Her name is Varania."_

He does not remember her. There is no face, no voice, no scent that comes with _Varania_. It is a hole. A void. A darkness that burns because there should be _something_ there.

Hadriana was probably lying. She was a snake. A _menace_. But if there is no Varania, then why should he feel empty in the absence of memory? It is not like the other life, lost to him now. His life before is behind an impenetrable veil. Frustrating, yes. But not like _this_.

Before he can start attempting to undo this new knot, he hears footsteps approaching. Bare feet on the plush rug that stretches the length of the foyer and when he glances up at Hawke, he is startled to see that she's wearing only a robe.

A thick, rather frumpy robe, considering the heat, but a robe nonetheless. It hits just below her knees, and he can see the gentle curve of her calf, the flesh bruised at odd intervals, and the tendons in her feet. On her left ankle is a tattoo, one he had not known she had. A fox. His eyes narrow in consideration. It fits.

"Andraste's ass, Fenris," she offers by way of a greeting, slipping past him to check that the door has been securely closed. "I was starting to think I should worry."

He stands, his head tilted so that she will not be able to see that he is...looking. It is futile, he knows. Frustration on top of frustration. The shadow cast by the mage is a long one and he would be a fool not to see it on her now. But there is also her long bared neck and the way her damp hair has been pushed away from her face for once, so that her brilliant eyes have no competition and the lightning quick smirks and grins are laid bare for him to see, her _prettiness_ a not unpleasant surprise.

"Hawke," his weight finally shifts so they are facing each other. Without boots, she is not quite so overwhelmingly tall and when she leans back against the door, even less so. "I've been thinking about what happened with Hadriana," the understatement is bitter. "You and I...don't always see eye-to-eye, but that doesn't mean you deserve my anger." His throat clenches and it's shame at his behavior that catches him. "I owe you an apology."

Her eyebrows raise and her lips crook in a way that tells him she didn't need to hear this.

"You're hardly the first person to take their frustrations out on me, Fenris," she laughs. "_Shit_. This isn't even the first time you've done it yourself!"

It's the truth. But it's also different this time.

For some reason. That he's certain has nothing to do with _I enjoy listening to you talk_.

"You are generous. Moreso than most," he murmurs, suddenly struck by the contrast between her and Hadriana. "When I was still a slave, Hadriana was a torment. She would ridicule me, deny my meals and...hound my sleep."

From the way Hawke's eyes widen, he can see there's no need to elaborate.

"Because of her status, because she was a mage, I was powerless to respond or defend myself," embers turn in his stomach, glowing red and waiting to be fed with more memories. "And she _knew_ it."

"Sounds like a real fair fighter," Hawke muses airily, although he can see faint lines of empathy creasing her forehead.

"Yes," his shoulders inch back and he's proud for a moment. "The thought of her slipping out of my grasp now...I couldn't let her go." Then pride turns sour and he recalls a split second of doubt when he'd thought to be merciful. It would be an insult to Hadriana, in a way, that he didn't even find her worth sullying his hands with her blood. She'd been at his mercy, shivering while her existence hinged on his ability to forgive. He darts his eyes away from Hawke's intense gaze. "I wanted to, but I couldn't."

"It's too bad you had to give up such a substantial lead on your family to do it," it's not condemnation, but Fenris detects the slightest undercurrent of judgment. "If she trusted you enough, you may have gotten more out of her."

His face goes hot. "And what would you have me do? Hadriana came after me! She wasn't here to make nice. She was here to kill me or lead me to Danarius. I have never had the option to simply walk away," he leans forward and were Hawke anyone else, she would recoil. "Were I to let her live, _I_ would be the fool. Is that what you think I am? Am I supposed to forgive, no matter how many times they hunt me down? Am I supposed to forget the _abuse_?"

Her expression grows pained and he knows that he's done something that he'll want to apologize for later. Her expression grows pained, and he remembers why he keeps to himself, why it's so hard to share anything with anyone because all he has to offer is what they made him into, anger spilling like acid and by his own words, she doesn't_ deserve it_.

"Fenris," she blinks rapidly a few times, a subconscious signal that she's struggling against her nature to just say whatever flies into her head. "I know it seems unlikely, but some _have_ said that amnesia is a friend to the tormented."

"A friend!" He scoffs and this time he _is_ angry at her. His head is still all knots, his stomach is burning through and a dull ache has settled at the center of his chest. He's standing toe to toe with her, talking, and nothing has gone right. She's not helped him in the least. It's worse than before, in fact. The fury, the frustration. "_I don't have any friends_," he spits and he means every word he says and none of them at all. He turns away from eyes that have gone soft with hurt and he sees the strengthening gleam of his tattoos and _damn them_. Perhaps losing the memory of Hadriana and Danarius _would_ be a good thing, but he'd always be marked by them. "It's a sickness, this hate. It's a fire that will never go completely out. A dark growth I can't ever get rid of, and they put it there! I would kill more to have it removed. I would..."

She's reaching for him, again, and for a moment he yearns for her hand to find him, to feel her fingertips whisper over the lines that define him. Maybe she could interpret them, and discover who he truly is in the process.

But instead, she catches herself. Her fingers curl _away_ and her arm falls to her side and despite the knot of failure between her brows, and that long shadow, he's _disappointed_.

"This...isn't why I came here," he slumps forward, a dangerous move, and she's so _close_. "I wanted to say that I was sorry, and instead...we fought."

Hawke waves her hand. "Of course we did. It's what we do," she inclines her head down. It's not an intimate gesture. It's not an _invitation_, but his heart beats for it nonetheless. "I'd be more worried about you if we'd ended up crying and hugging."

"Well, you play your part well," he bites at the words and fumbles inwardly, his tongue once against sticking in places it shouldn't be. _Coal on the fire_,_ Fenris _and it dawns on him as he exhales in the minimal space between them that perhaps he didn't come to have his knots loosened by _talk_. "_Hawke_."

And perhaps he doesn't say it, because it's as quiet as the breath she draws, startled by what she sees on his face or senses in his unyielding posture or maybe she can feel the heat coming from his skin and is confusing it for her own.

"Fenris," her voice is low, controlled, and of _course_ she would be together now when he's disintegrating inside. "I think you need some more time. To cool down."

He does. Need time. But not at _this_ time.

This time, he wanted something...else. _More_. A way to fully vent the steam built up over the years.

_Hawke is just more fire. _Their argument had proven that. _And she does not want you. _

He forces his eyes to unfocus so that when he steps around her she is nothing more than a blur in the low light beyond himself. It is the only way he can make himself leave, still tied up and agitated and wishing that there was a way to sort things out on his own.

The night beyond the door is more oppressive than it had been not twenty minutes before, the scent of an incoming storm heavy in the air. He is too lost in himself to see the Viscount's messenger approach, but he hears what is relayed to Hawke at the end of her very own long day.

"There's been an incident with the Qunari delegation, Serah. The Seneschal..._requests_ your presence at daybreak to discuss the matter."


	16. Madness

"Never a dull moment in the life of Wilhelmina Hawke," Wil narrates her jog back to the estate, ignoring stares drawn from the early morning throngs of nobles heading to the Viscount's Keep for weekly hearings. She hopes that they receive better news there than _she_ had.

Three Kossith...gone. Peaceful delegates who had arrived to meet with Viscount Dumar in the name of compromise. And then...vanished.

_Whoever did this, I can't wait to hear how they thought no one would _notice_. _

Or maybe she _doesn't_ want to know. There's only so much horseshit a person can tolerate in a lifetime, and she _has_ to be close to her limit.

Then there's the possibility that they _want_ to be caught. Normally she'd assume that only an idiot would offer themselves up like that, practically waving the Qunari down for reprisal. But before the incident with the saar-qamek, she'd assumed that nobody would think poisoning an entire neighborhood of innocent poor people would gain them anything but a bunch of brain-dead bodies.

"Kirkwall is so weird," she slows to check out the offerings of the pastry merchant who has set up his cart in the center of her square.

The man gives a lazy lift of his thick shoulders and then offers up a tray of fancypants fruit tarts, perfectly baked discs of dough with fresh berries piled high and adorned with tiny crystal sugar florets. Wil knows from experience that they'll be blander than the buttery burnt pastries she used to get in Lowtown, but they'll make a nice treat for everyone after a chaotic evening. She purchases an even dozen; Sandal can put away at least five on his own, and Bodahn has developed a preference for mid-morning teas in lieu of actual breakfast, more than likely a result of his own shit ability to make palatable porridge.

"Thank you, messere," the merchant pushes a carelessly wrapped parcel into her hands and turns to greet the slight, middle-aged man behind her. When she gets a good look at him, she can't blame the merchant for moving on. The man has a fall of gleaming silver hair that frames a fine-boned and delicate face. He's outfitted in luxurious silk robes, cerulean and pearl grey over tailored leggings and his boots come just below his knee and glitter deep maroon in the early morning son. _Dragonskin_. Curiosity begs her to hang close while he shops, but from the corner of her eye she catches the flapping of small white hands, followed by her name being aggressively squeaked.

_Orana?_ Wil nearly trips over herself to get to her doorway, where Orana has tucked herself just inside the foyer. From the dust motes and cobwebs that crown her pale hair, it's clear that she's began her daily duties. From the twisting of her slender fingers it's even _clearer_ that something has her spooked.

"Is everything all right?" Wil closes the door behind them, noting the relative calm of her home, which had been buzzing that morning. A second summons from the Viscount had Leandra giddy in a way that meant Wil had arisen to find four outfits draped on her wardrobe door, accessories for each in coordinating piles on her vanity. Eschewing all suggestions, and to Leandra's visible dismay, Wil had went in a lace tunic and a finely tooled leather apron. The next thing she'll have to do, after Orana is sorted, is change into something a little more Lowtown. "Where's Mother?"

Orana swallows and forces a smile. "Mistress Leandra is having breakfast with Lady Ivetta. And Messere Feddic is at the actuary," she begins speaking in hushed tones, the smile no longer sustained. "Sandal was in the basement while I was cleaning the library and I heard a bell ring inside the house. I...I was scared, but I went down to check on him, and he wasn't where he was before and I was afraid to go any further...and I think I heard someone talking. A-a man?" She shakes her head and the rest of the words pour out before Wil can offer her an explanation, "I ran back upstairs and went outside to wait for you." _swallow_ "And-"

_bang_

Orana dives behind Wil, her fingers finding handfuls of lace to cling onto.

"Wil?" Anders' voice fills the parlor and is followed by his heavy boots treading closer to the foyer. "Hawke? Are you back yet?"

_Maker's breath._ She wriggles free from Orana and begins striding into the house. "Hold on, I'm in the..._oh_"

"Hey!" He appears from nowhere and they very nearly crash in the doorway. It's only her quick reflexes, and his uncanny ability to avoid contact with her, that keeps them from fully colliding.

It doesn't, however, kill the flush that she can feel painting her face, nor does it stop the twisty warm relief that floods her stomach. Their last conversation had gone so poorly...but his cheeks are pink, too, and they're in such delightful contrast with his dark amber eyes and _priorities, Wil. Remember the missing Qunari?_

"Tart?" She offers the package up with both hands and holds it steady while he tears it open. Soft shadows purple the skin beneath his eyes and she wouldn't be surprised to find out that he's neither slept nor eaten since yesterday morning. "You did come here for breakfast, right?"

"No," he mumbles around his berry tart. It's gone so fast that she doubts he even tasted it. "Arianni was at my clinic this morning."

"Arianni?" Relief is replaced by stone cold worry. "Is something wrong?"

"She wouldn't say, she just wanted me to make sure you'd gotten her message," his voice lowers to a bare whisper. "It's about Feynriel."

Worse than worry..._panic_. Arianni's son, a mage of unknown ability and haunted by demons. His letters these past three years had all painted a pleasant picture of a boy learning who he was, unlocking his potential and being supported by those who could help him control his power. Loneliness had run like a strong current through most of his words, but he'd spoken fondly enough of Keeper Marethari and a few amongst the clan.

"Wil," Anders captures her attention, his gaze beyond her shoulder. "Why is there a girl huddled in the corner and looking at me like I am going to suck her blood?"

"Fuck," she whips around and Orana moves her lips into a smile, the rest of her face remaining frozen in fear. "Orana, this is Anders. He's a..._friend._ Who...lives below the cellar."

She feels an unsubtle nudge against her ribs. "I think you can sell it better than that, Hawke,"

The look she gives back, all annoyed eyebrows and wrinkled nose, is gone when she returns to Orana, who is slightly less terrified and clearly more confused.

"Our cellar connects to a place called Darktown. Anders is a _healer_,"_ not a power mad magister who is __going to steal your blood_. "He has a clinic in Darktown. I help out there when I'm not...you know." _Killing_. "Doing other stuff."

Orana's face is returning to normal, her eyes no longer the size of the moons and fear replaced with curiosity.

"Do you do mix potions?" She glances between Wil and Anders. "When Papa was young, his master was an alchemist. He...didn't make a lot of potions, but he knew what herbs to put in the soup when Mistress Hadriana was feeling sickly."

"And _this_ is Orana," Wil waves the girl forward, realizing that now it's Anders who needs clarification. "I hired her to help out around the estate. Today's her first day."

"Wil saved me," Orana _gushes;_ the ferocity of her gratitude sends more blood rushing to Wil's face. "I'm getting paid, and I have the _best_ view of the garden!"

"Do you?" Anders' mouth quirks. "Maybe now Wil'll be motivated to plant something back there. Something nice to look at and not _desolation_."

"That's Leandra's gig," Wil retorts, offering Orana the remaining tarts. "Have as many as you want and toss the rest on a platter for Bodahn."

"Okay," she accepts the package. "Should I take some down to Sandal?"

Wil can't help but want to hug her. "It's up to you. He's pretty good at sniffing these things out."

"And so is the dog," Anders adds helpfully, his amusement at this situation weird and delightful. "So I'd put them on lockdown."

Orana nods and slips out, humming breathlessly on her way to the kitchen. Wil and Anders watch her go, taking in the happy bob of her head and the way she moves as if the floor is three inches below her feet.

"Is there a short version?" Anders peers down at her, his eyes warm and proud and Wil wonders if there will ever be a day that _this gaze right here_ doesn't make her want to wrap her arms around his neck and never lose him.

_Even if he wants to be lost, which...he's _here_, isn't he?_

"Not really," she pulls away. "And I don't have the luxury of time right now."

"So you _didn't_ get Arianni's message?"

"I did, or I assume I did," she remembers the first messenger from last night. "I was so busy dealing with Orana and...," Fenris appears, unbidden, and in her mind he is impossibly close and distractingly afire. "_Other_ things."

His eyes narrow.

"And these _other_ things?"

"Oh, you know. Three Qunari delegates meet with the Viscount, and then disappear from the front steps of the Keep," she tries to laugh and it sounds like choking. "No big deal?"

"And I take it he's depending on you to keep things civil," wrinkles appear at the top of Anders' nose. "He's too much of a coward to put himself at risk."

"Yeah," her response is weak. Despite her frustration, she can't bring herself to hate the Viscount. She wishes that he were someone strong enough to stand up to, oh, _anyone_, but she also realizes how tricky it must be to keep Kirkwall from imploding on an hourly basis. She shakes it out and begins up towards her room. "Fortunately, there's a lead. They were being escorted by four new recruits who, suspiciously, never reported back."

"Four new recruits assigned to escort Qunari?" He's as skeptical as _she'd_ been. "Who's ass will that bite?"

Wil leaves him leaning in the doorway, his feet stopping automatically before he can cross the threshold. It's not the first time he's been upstairs, but he's never allowed himself further into her chamber.

"It was Aveline's decision," she positions the wardrobe door so he can't see her while she changes into her lightest armor. "Her reasoning was sound, but she was looking at it from the position of keeping her men safe. I don't think she anticipated that the _Qunari_ would be at risk."

"I take it you're hoping to track these errant guardsmen down," he doesn't sound thrilled. "Are you even going to read the message before you go?"

_Mages first_, she fumbles with her buckles. At least he's consistent on _that_ point.

"I will, Anders, but I can't prioritize one person over the entire city," she glances around the edge of the door and is not surprised to see he's looking onto the balcony. "If you want, it's on my desk."

He remains still.

"I promise I won't _flash_ you or anything," her head disappears and in a few seconds she hears heavy footsteps and the sound of parchment.

"Wil," his voice is closer than it should be and suddenly he's beside her with the note caught between his fingers. "It says his nightmares have caught up with him," he drops the paper into her hand. "He was having trouble with demons before...if he's caught in the Fade, who knows what could happen to him."

She catches the note and reads through it with minimal comprehension until "..._neither the Keeper nor the First Enchanter know how to help_."

"Do you know the First Enchanter?" Wil forgoes gauntlets and steps out with her boots in hand.

"Not personally. Karl seemed to like him well enough," Anders' lips turn down so quickly that she doubts he realizes he's frowning. "Orsino and the Knight Commander seldom see eye to eye and from what I've heard, he's the only reason the Gallows isn't an outright death sentence."

"A voice for the voiceless," she laces up her boots. "Arianni must have heard good things if she trusted him to know of Feynriel..." a muscle twitches along Anders' neck and dread fills her stomach. "Listen. I'm heading to the Hanged Man right now. A detour to the alienage shouldn't take too long. I'll check in with Arianni and make sure everything's all right and go back as soon this mess with the Qunari is dealt with. All right?"

His head shakes slightly, his jaw working as if he's been in a slight trance. When he speaks, his expression has softened considerably.

"Of course...I know that you do what you can," his gaze wanders past her to the tidily made bed beyond. "And you'll have my help, if you still want it. I'm...sorry. About yesterday."

It's true. She stands and they're toe to toe. From the way his face has fallen despite the tremulous hope in his amber eyes, he means it more than _anything_.

But it wasn't the first time, and she knows it won't be the last.

_Perhaps that's the point._ Over the tolling bell of her frustration, she offers him a crooked grin of forgiveness. _What will you endure to be with him?_ _How many false starts and stumbles and sad _you'd-be-better-off-with-anyone-besides-me_s before you run back to Isabela or Sorrell or even start some horribly inadvisable _thing_ with Fenris? _

He smiles and it's clouds parting and birds singing and all the trappings of foolish infatuation...a fullness in her chest that is one part happiness and another heartache.

_There isn't anything Varric could write that's this..._cliched_._

_But, Hawke, _she hears it in her friend's voice, all smoothly matter-of-fact and with a hint of time-burnished edging. _Cliches are cliches for a reason. Exceptions aren't made for those who think they're above such "nonsense"._

And sometimes, not _today_, she wishes she were.

* * *

><p>"Are you really going to knock heads together, Hawke?" Merrill stretches up on her tiptoes to see over the two large men who dawdle ahead of them in the Lowtown market. "Isabela tells me that you can fight dirty when you want to."<p>

_I bet Isabela says a lot of things._ Wil grabs her friend's elbow before she can tilt forward into their human roadblocks.

"I was thinking a more subtle approach," she ignores Anders' deliberate cough. "It's too early for fisticuffs."

"Oh," Merrill's disappointed. "Maybe next time."

And there's bound to be one. With the way things are going, Arianni understanding but desperate for help, Wil's going to be lucky to make it back to her bed by the end of the week. Anyone could get punchy on so little sleep.

"I'll make it spectacular, just for you," Wil sees an opening between the two men and dives through it, pulling both mages with her. Annoyed shouts follow them, but Wil keeps moving through the crowd until they're at the familiar door of the Hanged Man. Home free. She turns to Anders. "Let's try to do this without any bloodshed...Varric would never forgive me if I got him kicked out of here."

"Varric's probably the only reason this place turns a profit," he responds wryly. "Well, Varric and you."

"But Hawke only goes here for Varric," Merrill's eyes drift up in thought. "Ooh! And sometimes Isabela."

_Note to self: have a chat with Merrill._

"Yes, well, the warning stands. If we want the dwarf to be happy, we keep the establishment as blood free as possible."

Wil braces herself and pushes into the small foyer at the front of the bar, pausing for a moment so her eyes can adjust to the low-lit room and she can get a sense of where people are.

"So," she leans close to Anders, who is scanning the area closest to the bar. "See anyone who screams 'Hey, I just made the stupidest decision of my life!'?"

He looks back, "I don't suppose _only everyone_ is an acceptable response?"

Merrill wriggles past them before Wil can return the smartassery.

"What about the man at the bar?" She points to a squat, flat-featured gentleman with a ginger pompadour and thick mustache to match. "He looks like one of those fancy dogs the ladies keep in Hightown."

He does, but more importantly, though less amusingly, he's also carrying a rather heavy purse, and behind him is a table full of raucous men that Wil's fairly certain she's never seen before.

"Good eyes, Merrill. Now hang out here and watch for trouble," Wil saunters ahead, Anders close to her elbow, and the man is still calling out his order when they settle in at the bar next to him. It's expensive stuff, bottles of wine and whiskey and something that involves a worm and wanting to pass out blind. Each demand is followed by a silver thrown down on the bar for emphasis, metal flashing in lamplight and only someone who's not used to having money to waste would be so wantonly wasteful.

"A lot of coin for this place," Anders observes, his voice just above conversational.

The man stiffens. "Make that two of the stuff from Nevarra," a coin goes down. "That's right pal," he cuts his gaze towards Anders and narrows violently green eyes. "Today I'm blessed...and all I had to do was turn my head."

_And endanger an entire city._ Wil shoves away from the bar before he can see her face. _Idiot,_ she mouths to Anders.

_Guilty,_ he mouths back and they wait for him to go back to his table before they confront him.

The better to not give the gossipy regulars at the bar an earful of what the Viscount would rather keep under wraps.

The man is burdened by his purchases, and it's slow progress to his table of reaching hands and faces already ruddy from a morning spent accepting the generosity of extremists and idiots.

"To my friends," he takes a single mug for himself and cackles when they return his toast with mumbles and mutterings and nothing like enthusiasm.

"Hey, Focsh," a bald man on the far-side of the table lifts an unsteady finger and points in Wil's general direction. "Looksh like you've attracshted shome attenshion. Shweetheart probably wantsh shomeone to shpoil her and shpank her and my lap ish alwaysh open, shweetie."

Wil _somehow_ manages to resist the man's charms.

She's got Fox's attention, however, and he doesn't see her in quite the same way as his drinking buddy.

"Hey, step down," he puffs his chest and draws himself up to his full height, almost clearing Wil's shoulders in the process. "I know important people. Together, we'll show this city what to do with those blasted heathens by the docks."

His breath is a blast of rotten teeth, fish for breakfast, and sour mash, but Wil's able to grit her teeth and smile through it.

"_Heathens_?" She shrugs it off with a what-the-fuck-to-I-care? laugh. "Someone has deep pockets...and I'm..._useful," _she throws in a suggestive purr that is no doubt ridiculous. "Do you think you could get me an introduction?"

He's not buying it. "Somebody always wants somethin', but I got connections now, and I don't have to take it anymore," anger lights his eyes. "Three horn-heads are just a start."

A chorus of grumbles supports his case, and he sneers, emboldened and reaching for his sword.

_Andraste's tits I _really_ don't want to do this here._

"If you want what I got, you'll have to take it from me and my new friends!" He lifts his chin, waiting for the clank of iron in scabbards and men taking up the fight.

Instead, he gets a table full of men suddenly fascinated with the bottoms of their mugs.

"Schorry," slurs Wil's future husband. "She looksh meeeeeeeean. You're on your own, mate."

"Bastards," he snarls down at them, too betrayed to see Wil's right fist flying through the air.

He notices when it hits his nose, however, blood gushing over his his mustache and rolling down his chin and his feet no longer able to make sense of the floor below him. After a not unamusing few seconds of arms flapping and futile scrambling, he falls to his knees with a thud.

From across the room, Merrill lets out an unmistakeable squeal of delight.

"_Bitch_," dirty fingers press to his nose in a pointless effort to stop the bleeding. "You'll wish you'd never met me."

Wil makes a show of examining her hand, flexing it to ensure it's functional before brandishing it again, this time with every ounce of _fearsome_ her ill-fated dragon blood can summon.

From the way his tan skin goes ashen, she assumes it's quite a bit.

"Feeling friendlier?" She grinds it out between her teeth.

He sobs, a sad noise made pathetic with snotty blood bubbles and real tears. Suddenly he's no longer the important man with connections and coin. He's just an asshole who did something stupid and got caught because of his own bravado.

"What do you want from me?" His eyes search for an ally amongst his drinking buddies and return to hers with naked fear. "Listen, I just did what he told me to do. It was more coin than I'd ever seen, and my whore of a wife robbed me blind when she left and I've not been able to find work since you damned doglords come so cheap."

"Aren't you a _delight?_" Anders crosses his arms over his chest and smirks. "I don't know why anyone would let someone like _you_ get away."

"Indeed," Wil agrees. "But I'm more curious about the coin...surely someone so _generous_ deserves recognition for their good deeds?"

"Dammit," he falls back on his ass, his defeat complete. "It was a templar. I didn't get his name, but we met at the Chantry and he...he told me that taking the Qunari was serving the Maker."

"A templar?" _What a totally expected and completely problematic revelation...if it's true._ "Are you certain?"

The man raises his bloodied hand, crimson running the length of his palm. "I swear! He even had the seal of the grand cleric. You might not believe me, but true is true!"

_Petrice._ Wil can't control the the way her throat constricts in disgust. _Well, it's not like you thought she'd disappear._

"Get out of my sight," she's too pissed to throw in an empty threat, and the man is only too happy to scramble away, leaving a trail of blood drops and messy handprints on the floor. "Fuck."

"Great," Anders rounds on her. "A templar."

"I'm more interested in the grand cleric's seal," Wil scowls. "And I bet the grand cleric will be, too."

Anders' eyes widen as he realizes what she's saying.

"Wil, maybe you shouldn't...," he starts, but she's already striding towards the back of the bar to raise Varric.

She's not going to risk her informant tipping _anyone_ off before she can get to them.

* * *

><p>"Andraste's knickerweasels, Wil," Anders manages to slip in before the Chantry door falls closed.<p>

Varric and Merrill could still be back in the market for all she knows.

"A drunk says the grand cleric funded zealots through a rogue templar," his voice is strained from the effort of keeping up with her. "This is enough evidence for you?"

Wil stops, suddenly realizing that she's in the Chantry and has been running on rage and not thinking about what she's going to say _exactly_.

Anders is right, though. Letting it slip that her source is the muscle hired to look away wouldn't be particularly impressive.

_Especially_ to Petrice.

"Don't forget the kidnapped Qunari," she paces back and forth, deciding to wait for the rest of their party to catch up. "That, too."

He sighs, his chin dropping in submission. "Well, it's not like the templars are going to like me no matter what I do...why should the _Chantry_, either."

Wil stops and lifts one eyebrow in terse bemusement. "Am I supposed to believe you care whether or not they like you?"

"It would be nice if they'd at least give me a chance," he's only mostly kidding. "I'm not _evil_ or anything."

_From what I've encountered in Kirkwall, they might prefer evil. _She frowns and only the doors swinging open keep her from stating it outright.

"Sorry, Hawke," Varric's red-faced and breathing hard. "There was a flower vendor, and...well, Daisy wanted a daisy."

Merrill points to the flower tucked behind her ear, her smile almost incandescent in the cool dark of the atrium.

"Come on...before _somebody_ has a chance to flee," she finishes with a quick heel turn and starts towards the altar, where a small clutch of women in Chantry robes stand in a tight pack. Before she can plow into them, a red-haired acolyte steps in, all fake smiles and politesse.

"Oh, excuse me, messere," she focuses only on Wil, as if mages, dwarves and elves wouldn't also have reason to drop in on the middle of a weekday. "How can I be of service?"

Wil contemplates for a moment before making her request. "The grand cleric please," never has she sounded more like the nobility that her mother is so desperate for her to be. "Tell her...tell her 'Three qunari leave an estate...' and let her finish."

The acolyte's face draws blank, blue eyes darting in confusion, and Wil feels almost sorry for her.

"I'll take care of this one, Luisa," the voice that interrupts them is more imperious than Wil could ever hope to be. "After all, she is...an old friend of mine."

Sister Petrice does something with her face that Wil assumes might be an attempt to smile. All she can truly discern is the frosty cool of her narrowed eyes and the subtle lift of her thin upper lip.

"Serah Hawke," Petrice refuses to extend the more suitable title of _messere_.

"Sister Petrice," Wil returns, her tone hard.

"_Mother_ Petrice," she corrects with palpable self-satisfaction that trails into disappointment as she regards the woman in front of her, the wealthy upstart whom she'd last condemned to disappear into Lowtown. "Time has changed us both."

Wil tilts her head in consideration, hoping to mask her disgust in the Chantry for allowing this one to advance. "I'm not so certain that it has, Mother."

Petrice makes an annoyed noise, but maintains the careful veneer of civility. "Grand Cleric Elthina cannot grant an audience to just anyone," her hands twist at her waist. "What do you want?"

"Perhaps you can help me," Wil saunters forward a few steps, closing the space between them and using her height to its most intimidating effect. "I know that someone is _abusing_ the grand cleric's seal."

The air around them is heavy for a moment, with implications and incense and the distant sound of the chant. From the sharp lift of her eyebrows, Petrice isn't completely unsurprised by the accusation, although when she speaks again, she attempts to make it seem that she is.

"Who are you to question who serves Her Grace?" Her tone is that of someone who has studied righteous scandal as a means to disarm. "I am sorry, but your accusations are baseless and I see no reason to let you pass."

_Good day,_ she adds in the hard set of her jaw and the defiant thrust of her _pointy_ chin.

"Oh," Wil places her hands on her hips, feigning defeat to stare at the floor for a few seconds before raising her head to challenge Petrice's victorious smirk. "Do you think she'd want to know that her authority was used to abduct Qunari, then?"

Nostrils redden and flare, eyebrows lower an almost imperceptible amount, but Petrice does not respond.

"Ah," Wil nods, layering on false empathy. "_You_ knew. But does Her Grace?"

"The grand cleric trusts her stewards to enact the wishes of the Maker," it's spat over a practiced cadence and Wil knows without knowing that it's trust that spurred Petrice to her promotion, and not anything having to do with serving the Maker.

"Tsk, tsk," Wil's tongue strikes the back of her teeth and she's fighting to keep her mouth from curling up into a taunting grin. "It sounds like you've been _naughty_, Mother. This will no doubt shock Her Grace when I tell her."

This time Petrice doesn't attempt to hide _anything_, neither her quiet rage at being caught nor how very little she thinks of the one who did.

"_Unh,_"her gaze wanders._ "_Stubborn," she hisses, oblivious to the pride it gives Wil to hear it. "All right, Serah Hawke, if you won't abandon this, then let me offer you something."

While it's tempting to press for _more_ than something, Wil inclines her head in agreement.

"The templar you seek is a radical who has grown...unreliable. Confronting him may do us all a favor."

Wil has every reason to suspect that this templar is exactly as _unreliable_ as Petrice has encouraged him to be, but it would be foolish to antagonize while being handed a lead.

"And his _relation _to you is...?"

But it would be _fun_, too.

"He is my former bodyguard, Ser Varnell," her words are rushed and from behind Wil, Anders lets out an insinuating little cough. "Assume what you wish, but I offer him to you as...reconciliation and invite you to meet me at this location. Not only will Varnell be there, but you will see firsthand the unrest these Qunari have inspired."

_Inspired with no assistance from you, of course._ Wil's teeth dig into her tongue and stay there until Petrice has pressed a small slip of parchment into her palm and turned away, her face cold and composed.

"This is a set up," Varric sings the moment the mother is out of earshot.

"You _think_?" Wil stretches languidly, arms reaching towards the ceiling while her eyes remain on the solitary figure as it climbs the stairs and her expression grimly determined. "Unfortunately, this is her game. But if she thinks I'm going in without a back-up plan, then she's a fool as well as a pain in the ass."

"I don't think I've ever known you to have a back-up plan that didn't involve getting drunk and sleeping in my bed," Varric muses. "Say what you will about Mother Petrice, but I think she brings out the best in you, Hawke."

"How embarrassing then, because that _is_ my back-up plan," she leads them out of the Chantry, her pace very nearly as fast as it had been on their journey there. "So I guess that means we're on my _back-up _back-up plan...which is sending a message to Bran with our location. That way, if the worst happens, someone will at least know where it all went wrong."

Varric and Anders exchange alarmed glances.

"Maaaaybe I spoke too soon," a strong, leatherclad arm laces itself through her own. "You _do_ realize this has _us_ at the epicenter of _the worst happening_? I mean, I could probably make it out okay, but Blondie owes me about six gold and Daisy and I have plans for Wordsmith on Saturday night."

"I just know I'm gonna win this time," Merrill interjects. "I've got a _really_ good feeling."

"Don't worry. I'm not planning on throwing myself, or any of you, onto a blade to prove a point," she frowns, realizing how abnormally driven she's been today. _Dealing with zealots will do that to a person._ "I just want to take this seriously."

Varric snorts. "Maybe _that's_ why it's so scary."

"Yeah, well," she shrugs off the bitter surge of how _personal_ it's become."Everybody's gotta start somewhere."

* * *

><p><em>Somewhere<em> turns out to be shit.

In a literal way.

"Nice place for a rally," Anders helps Varric sidestep a pile of filth that could swallow a dwarf whole if he wasn't careful. "Good choice, Varnell."

Wil has to agree with Anders. Or, well, his sarcastic intent. She's been all over the undercity, and she knows for a fact that there are secret caverns that _aren't_ directly fed into by the overburdened Kirkwall city sewer.

"I suppose it's symbolic," Wil shuffles along the narrow strip of tunnel that's not sodden, her progress frustratingly slow and further hampered by the elf on her back. "The tidy hideouts are for _human_ hostages."

"This place certainly seems to fit the mother," muses Merrill. "She smells worse than a halla pen on a summer afternoon." Silence hangs for a second and Wil is nearly thrown off balance by Merrill shifting to _scratch_ at something. "Not literally, of course. She _bathes_. But she's not a _nice_ person at all."

"And she's around her somewhere...I'll keep Bianca loaded, just in case."

Ahead of them the tunnel widens and Wil can see the long shadows of the gathering rabble. A few steps closer, and she can hear, them, too. Or Varnell, rather, his nasal voice rising with unearned righteousness to confirm what the bigots gathered here already believe.

"Qunari hold no real power. They are absent from the eyes of the Maker!"

Wil rolls her eyes and allows Merrill to slip down, now that they're out of the sewer. "If they held no real power, then you wouldn't be so _afraid_ of them," she mutters, receiving a violent nod of agreement from Anders.

They move closer, being careful to remain on the flank of the crowd, which is primarily comprised of craftsmen, dock workers and soot-covered men from the foundries. Most are still dressed from a day spent on the job, and even from her perspective, Wil can see that peculiar blend of anger and exhaustion and fear of the unknown on their faces.

_They are devout and they are scared, and here's a man who represents the Maker in all His strength telling them _exactly_ what they want to hear._

She halts and silently instructs the others to do the same. From here she can see the three kossith, bloodied and bound to rusty iron poles, their swords tied into their scabbards just as Bran had told her they would be.

"Like any beast," Varnell snarls into the battered face of the largest kossith. "Remove the fangs and it is lost," he steps down to the next, fully caught up in the power he holds over his prisoners. "They are weak before the faithful of the Maker. The only certainty in their precious Qun is death before the righteous."

The kossith turns his head, the pain in his expression more than she's ever seen one of his people show and it's like a fist to her gut, nauseous darkness that makes it difficult for her to watch Varnell's preening.

She understands now why the Arishok allowed them to have the saar-qamek. Why he risked the deaths of so many. Bran's parting words to her from this morning ring in her ear:

"_The Viscount used the word _hopeful_ to describe his meeting with the Qunari, Hawke. I would not like to see him disappointed."_

and she's a second from taking Varnell on herself when a strident, disapproving voice cuts the air behind her.

"Ser Varnell!" Petrice sounds plausibly scandalized.

"Ah, Mother," Varnell smiles like a child promised a treat for good behavior. "Take a knee, faithful. The Chantry blesses us."

"You claim a blessing when you have used the authority of the grand cleric so openly?" Like a sudden summer squall, Petrice comes on quickly, her breath hot on Wil's neck as she slithers past. "You have brought _wrath_ upon you...or have you forgotten Serah Hawke?"

A room full of the Chantry devoted turn their accusing eyes to Wil and she's painfully aware of the weapons they carry, small daggers and stilettos and a couple of old swords. She is here to fight _for_ the Qunari.

She has somehow become the _enemy_.

"The Qunari have friends, templar," Petrice continues, moving steadily away from Wil. "How will you answer their allegations?"

Varnell draws his dagger, gleaming daggerbone that catches blood red in the gloom. Wil watches, him approach one of the bound kossith, his intent clear and _this is _not_ right._

"_Stop_," Wil snaps. "You want a fight, Varnell? Then face someone whose weapons _aren't_ bound."

Varnell ignores her, making a show of it, dragging out the inevitable for his own amusement.

"It's no use, Hawke," Anders steps up beside her, his voice clear and his words not meant for her. "Templars are cowards. They only pick on those whose lives they already hold in their hands."

This gets to Varnell, his gauntlet tightening and when he moves again, it's to slash the knife across the bared throat of the kossith, whose last expression is one of muted gratitude and surprise.

Not fear.

Not pain.

Blood spurts and streams down the broad, grey chest, replacing the faded war paint with more noble hues and Wil remains still for a second, watching his head loll and his knees buckle and she's unable to quite comprehend what has happened, what _is_ happening.

"Hawke! Look out!" Merrill is behind her, the scent of freshly ploughed dirt overwhelming and Wil manages to step aside just as a large mass of earth and rock sails past her ear to knock Varnell solidly in the back. "Yeah, that's right, you big _can_!"

But it's not just Varnell that they will need to fight. Like the square in Lowtown and the elven woman driven to insane lengths to save her people from the Qun, these are not _fighters_ like Wil. These aren't even hobbyist mercenaries, like Varric or Fenris. These are cooks and freight-handlers and metalworkers and while their fear has led to _horrible_ things, can they be blamed if they're only looking for a scapegoat on which to hang their own misery? Can they be blamed for listening to those who should know better, whom they _trust_ to know better?

"Wait!" Wil sprints towards Varnell, barely side-stepping a limpwristed swipe that comes from a middle-aged woman in a teal linen dress and cobbler-stained apron. "Oh, come _on_! I don't want to fight _you_!"

On her left a man with a plank of wood swings hard, catching her arm and throwing her out of balance.

"Dammit," she shakes it off, searching through the growing chaos of limbs and defensive spells. "Anders! Merrill! _Sleep!_"

She shuffles ahead, mentally bracing herself for the spell that falls like a cool mist around her. It's tempting to give in as the others do, her attackers fumbling their weapons before strength leaves their limbs and they spill over like lifeless sacks of potatoes. It's so tempting, after the days she's been having, but then she sees what Varnell has accomplished while the rabble kept her busy. He turns from the final slain kossith, his cheeks splattered crimson and a tired, victorious sneer baring his teeth before he slumps to the feet of his victims.

Normally Wil would wait for him to rise. Normally, Wil wouldn't strike down an unconscious man.

Normally, Wil would see his value and keep him alive. In binds of her own making, but alive nonetheless.

But against the backdrop of the three dead delegates, their heads bowed in death the way they would never be in life, she cannot summon the compassion or the willpower and when her sword slices easily through his spine, she feels something like hollow satisfaction.

It does not change what has happened. Lives cannot be traded like goods or money, she cannot say that a debt has been erased or diminished because of the death of one sad little templar.

But it feels _good_, at that moment.

And it feels good when the protestors begin to rouse from their slumber, one at a time and all confused

_Merrill's doing, I imagine_

and the sight that greets them is not one of victory, or the triumph of their ideals over those of lesser beasts. It's nothing but loss. Senseless bloody _loss_.

And their lives have enough of _that_ already.

"Those that yet live, leave," she orders, tugging her blade from Varnell's corpse with a violent twist. "We won't hold back next time."

There's a breathless moment when they all turn and stare, at each other, at the mages and dwarf that have them easily covered, and then back to her. She doesn't blink, or back down, and neither do her friends.

"Fuck it," the man with the plank casts it aside. "It's not worth it."

He runs. The rest gather their reluctance and their confusion and their _we thought that this would be much more fun_ and _they_ run.

"She's gone, Wil. Ran as soon as the fighting started," Anders confirms over the space between them, which is now occupied by seven dead zealots.

"I'm not surprised," she tears her eyes away from the corpses. "Too bad for our dear Mother Petrice. Now _I_ get to tell the Viscount the truth, and she won't be here to poison it."

oOo

Dumar is speechless at first, or perhaps breathless. They _are_ in a sewer and, despite spending most of his time three feet over his head in mucky muck politics, _actual_ shit is a special kind of awful. Especially in an enclosed room on a warm summer evening.

Never mind the dead bodies.

_He_ can't, however. His mouth hanging open as he surveys the damage. Three dead kossith, a slain templar and the seven Kirkwallians who had died for their cause, all left where they'd fallen. Wil had taken the time to plunder the minimal loot stored down here, a handsome shield about the only item of note, but she'd not gone near the corpses.

She wanted the Viscount to see with his own eyes the kossith bound and unable to defend themselves. She wanted him to notice the deep, clean gashes across their broad throats and to realize that they'd not struggled under the knife, nor flinched from their murderer. She wanted it to be raw for him, because otherwise he'd _never_ understand.

"This...," he turns back to her, his face grey and his shoulders low. "This is madness. Absolute _madness_."

It worked.

"_That's_ a word for it," Wil responds, quietly. She might have thrown in a _fucking_ or two, for emphasis.

He points to Varnell. "Chantry involvement...even if they are fringe elements," his hand lifts, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose as he takes a deep and pained breath. "The meeting had gone so well, and now...this. It could _not_ be worse."

From behind Wil, Anders scoffs.

"The Chantry has seen the abuses the templars get away with," his voice is heated, accusatory. _You should know better, messere._ "Why would they not think to do the same?"

Dumar turns back to them once more, his eyes watery and uncomprehending as he studies the man who'd just spoken, spitting with passion in a way that must remind him of Saemus.

But if he sees the similarity, he keeps it to himself.

"Yes...," a useless response. "But what of these others? They're hardly soldiers or warriors. _You_ killed them?"

Wil swallows, guilt flooding the back of her throat as he unwittingly strikes her where she's most sensitive.

"A mother serving the grand cleric _allowed_ this to happen," and as soon as the words are out, she realizes how defensive they are. It's technically not a lie, of course, but she still sounds like a small child trying to shift the blame onto a larger target. And even if Petrice had roused the crowd to see Wil and her friends as their enemy, she'd not spilled a single drop of blood with her own hand.

"Are you quite sure?" His white brows raise high on his forehead and he's playing his role, too. The parent who sees the dodge, yet doesn't realize the truth beneath it. "She held a blade _with_ them? Told them to fight you?"

_I said _allowed_ this to happen_ Wil wants to fire back, but it would seem petty and if she's going to build a case against Petrice, it must be free of her own bias against the bitch.

Instead, she looks away, outwardly chastened, and finishes their little act. "No, I cannot say that."

"Of course not," he sags again and she's sharply surprised to realize that he wanted it to be true. Definite action that he could leverage instead of string-pulling and manipulation. "A blasted mother...you have no idea the storm these allegations would cause, Serah Hawke. It would destroy what support I _do_ have."

Wil nods, that old understanding from earlier in the day subduing whatever anger or resentment she should feel for him in his failure to control his city. Like Saemus, there is something profoundly immaterial about him, as if he's flitting in and out of existence or fading away. She nods in sympathy, stepping forward so that they stand shoulder to shoulder.

If her mother could see her, she'd go faint at the implications of her daughter running roughshod over decorum to treat the Viscount in so casual a manner.

He, on the other hand, doesn't seem to care.

"I'd be careful no matter what," she warns him. "I've had trouble with her before. She is...slippery."

_And heartless. And willing to lie and sacrifice whoever she must to get her way._

The sigh that escapes him is profound in the depths of _how much more can I take?_

"I understand," he glances over at her, a grim smile tightening across his lips. "I will make my inquiries. Gently. And I'd advise you to be careful in your associations. But now I'm afraid we have a more immediate concern."

"The Arishok," she mutters, forgetting Petrice and Varnell and the not quite innocent dead. His presence can be felt in this moment between them. How will he react to his efforts at peace being turned into a knife against the Qun? What will he do now that negotiations will no doubt be taken from the table until his demand is satisfied or he finally grows intolerant of Kirkwall, as is, for another day longer?

"I can't return the bodies to him in this state...you know him, Serah Hawke. Would should I do?"

Several things come to mind, some blasphemous, some morbid, some painfully practical. It's a flurry of ideas all meant to distract her from the fact that this decision is _important_, and it's hers to make.

_How fucked is Kirkwall if this is a thing that's happening?_

"Hiding this would only make it worse," it comes from someplace within her that is also weird. Weirdly certain it's the truth that she speaks. There has been so much wrongness committed here this evening, that any attempts to paint over it with diversions or misdirection would only slough off in time to expose the lie beneath, festering and rotten. "You'll have to tell him, Viscount. And the more honest you are, the better your chances are that he'll not..."

_Sack your city._

"Yes," he agrees before she can lay down _too_ much truth. "I am losing my sense of how to balance this nightmare."

Truth on top of truth.

His guards are almost done loading the bodies onto the lifts that will transport them topside. It's late enough now that they can move through the city with ease, as long as they avoid the main streets. Someone will need to sort through the belongings of the humans, searching for scraps that might identify them.

She wants to tie a few notes to them herself, for the next of kin. Notes of explanation _they died doing someone else's will...they were just looking for a reason _and notes imploring them to not act in a way that would compound the already considerable losses.

"I suppose the seneschal and I will be dealing with this for the foreseeable future, and you can go back to...work," the Viscount moves unsteadily in the mud, exhaustion taking its toll on his balance. "I appreciate your help, Serah Hawke. As bad as this is, it could have been much worse without you. Kirkwall owes you," he throws her one last look and his parting words are the most adamant of the evening. "_I_ owe you."

"Thank you," she stops following him. "And I've always wanted a _pony_."

There's creaking wood and chains and the sound of rusting gears grinding together in a long forgotten song of industry. But she swears she hears the old man chuckle, or perhaps it's a relieved gasp as the air in the lift shaft is probably about half as shittastic as it is where _she's_ standing.

"So," Anders is behind her, his voice deliberately light. "I'm not a seer, but I can't help but think we're going to end up at the Hanged Man tonight."

The Hanged Man. It's a place that hardly smells better than here, but it has beer and beds and her body is practically yearning for both.

_But._

"Arianni probably wouldn't appreciate me showing up at her house at dawn, drunk as a skunk and half-naked."

"But you're _hilarious_ when you're drunk, Hawke," Merrill chips in. "And if you need a place to stay, I have a...mat you can sleep on. Right next to the fire."

She turns to Anders, who is regarding Merrill with suspicion.

"I promised her I'd get back as soon as I could. It's not _that_ late, and if Marethari is in Kirkwall already..."

"Right," Anders rubs his forehead, his attempt to brighten the mood forgotten in the face of Feynriel's predicament.

Varric and Merrill join them, forming a small circle. Varric bows out first. "Believe it or not, I've got other business to attend to this evening."

"And by _business_ you mean high-stakes Diamondback," Wil rolls her eyes. "Or is this one of those things where you gather a bunch of oily merchant types and get them drunk and talking, only to turn their alcohol fueled discretion against them?"

A pleased grin spreads across his handsome face. "You finally read _Hard in Hightown_!"

"A misleading title," she frowns, half in the conversation and half attempting to remember what details Arianni had given her.

"Only if you're very drunk."

Wil shrugs. "Like I said...say, we're not that far from the clinic, are we? If we cut through Darktown, I can run up to Fenris' mansion and see if he has plans for the evening."

Anders isn't a fan of this idea. All curled down lips and frowny brows. "Why would you invite Fenris to help Feynriel? Didn't he advocate for the Circle last time?"

"Of course he did," Wil holds back on sounding too incredulous. "But the extra weapon is worth hearing him complain about everything I do. Wait...do weapons even help in the Fade?"

Merrill has withdrawn from their group, just a few paces but her face is shadowed and lines crease her broad forehead.

"You can stay with me when it's over, Hawke," she speaks in an uncharacteristically even tone, her chin pushed stubbornly out. "But I won't be able to help you, either."

She's taking a stand against _something_.

_Probably Marethari...although I'd have thought she'd be glad to see her._

"And Aveline is out, too. If I can pin down Isabela and Fenris, then I'll feel better prepared..."

"Watch it be nothing more than midnight tea in the Fade," Varric pantomimes taking a delicate sip. "The elf would never let you hear the end of it."

Wil laughs sharply, remembering her last conversation with Fenris and how hostility was always a danger when it came to the two of them.

"The elf never lets me hear the end of _anything_," she leads them towards the back way out, inwardly praying that it involves less _shit_.

She could use a break.


End file.
